


Tangerine Days

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Tangerine 'verse [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Fantasy, Magic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan is plain old boring d'Artagnan, until one evening, while on duty, he sees a ghost. And suddenly he's plain old boring d'Artagnan, who works for the Supernatural Unit, and has been taken under the wing of the frankly quite odd Musketeers, who drag him into lots of adventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> beta'ed by the absolutely fabulous Vatican-Cameos over on Tumblr, without whom this would never have been completed or posted. And without whom there would be many inconsistancies and spelling mistakes. Thank you so much for the input and encouragement and general wonderulness. 
> 
> WARNINGS: rape, grief, death, injury, near-death, child endangermeant and child abuse dealt with on cases
> 
> THERE IS A GLOSSARY! yay if you get confused there is a helpful glossary. Just go to chapter index and you'll find it. 
> 
> This is pretty much unamed. I'm terrible at names and summaries. Does anyone want to be my own private summary and name creator? 
> 
> Also, if 'main character is on patrol and sees a ghost and boom adventures' sounds familiar, yes, yes, I was reading Rivers of London when I started this. I only got about three chapters in, but I apologise for any similarities and acknowledge it as a source.

d'Artagnan is freezing cold and bored and tired and quite frankly fed up. He squints up the street and spots Ninon in Café Nero on the corner, warm and inside, sipping coffee.

"Why do you get to sit inside and have a nice coffee, while I'm stuck out here?" d'Artagnan grumbles, activating the radio. "It's cold."

"Because I'm the boss," Ninon says, voice coming remote and disconnected through the mic. She waves to him. "Anything interesting out there?"

"I think my fingers might fall off," d'Artagnan says.

"Do a check of the perimeter, then," Ninon says. "Off you go."

d'Artagnan sighs, lets go of the radio button and starts off around the taped off area. He knows that Ninon expects him to do the whole park, not just the couple of hundred feet that are marked off. He sticks his hand in under his stab vest and sets off, his shoes sinking into the mud. The gates are locked, police tape over them, so of course there's no one in the park, Ninon is just giving him busy work because he complained. She's like that. She's a good guvnor, though, all told.

d'Artagnan scans the empty playground, stifling a yawn, and comes to an abrupt halt, mouth hanging open for the un-forthcoming yawn. Sat on the swing, pushing himself gently back and forth, is a man. d'Artagnan takes a step forward, then another, then presses his radio mic.

"Wouldn't do that, if I were you," the man says.

"Sergeant," d'Artagnan says. "I may have-"

"Can't... crk... crrrrktan?"

"Sorry, that'll be my fault," the man on the swing says. "Treville. Captain. If you were wondering."

"Can you give me a full name, and address?" d'Artagnan says, pulling out his notebook, remembering his training.

"Well, Treville is all I go by, usually. I don't have an address."

Itinerant/street sleeper d'Artagnan writes.

"Is there a shelter you stay at?" d'Artagnan asks. "A drop in you frequent?"

"No," Treville says, laughing for some reason. "You misunderstand, boy. I'm dead."

"Oh. Bugger," d'Artagnan says, crossing out what he's written, frowning. "I've never seen this stuff, before."

"Huh. A novice. Have you had any big life events recently? Any deaths in the family? That'll sometimes do it. I once met a poor lad who could only See after his sister was stabbed. He wasn't very happy about it."

"I can see why," d'Artagnan says. He's had training on this, too, but he didn't pay attention. He's never been Sensitive, why would he? He had no use for the protocols. He looks at his notebook, and writes ghost, then hesitates. "Is this your usual... um... haunt?"

"Don't know the questions, lad? I can help you there. Was a copper myself, for a bit. I go by Captain Treville, I can usually be found hereabouts. I'm from the 17th century, been dead a long time. Never moved on. Liked it here too much. Let me tell you about-"

"Treville," A voice growls, coming up behind d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan spins, startled, and nearly tumbles over. He's caught by a big pair of hands, and he looks up into an amused, friendly face. "Hello. Ignore the captain, he's just tryin' t' find a new audience for his stories. He'll go on for hours."

"Porthos," Treville says. "I've been expecting you. I've been waiting for two days."

"Yes, well, we were busy," Porthos says. "You know, seeing as we have jobs and lives. Who's this?"

Porthos lifts d'Artagnan by the shoulders, setting him right and turning him back to Treville.

"He's a cop," Treville says. "Obviously. I think he's guarding the scene, he has a radio and a Sergeant. He came patrolling by, and spotted me waiting on you. I seem to be interfering with the radio."

Porthos leans over d'Artagnan's shoulder and prods the radio, listens to it crackle, and then tugs it off d'Artagnan's vest.

"Hey!" d'Artagnan says, making a grab for it. Porthos pulls it out of his reach, though, and pops it open.

"He's good at fixing things," Treville says. "Except when he breaks them more. Where's Athos?"

"At the station," Porthos says, absently, prodding bits of the radio around. He reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a bright red sticker, which he presses to the inside of the casing before putting the radio back together and passing it back to d'Artagnan. "That should do it. I'm supposed to be going home, Captain. I was passing, and you're spread out over the whole damned park."

d'Artagnan's radio crackles, without him touching anything, static and high pitched and horrible, then it clears.

"d'Artagnan? Johnny! For fuck's sake, if I have to trek through that park and I find that you're not dead or unconscious I swear to God-"

"Ninon, I'm fine," d'Artagnan says.

"Oh thank God. What happened?"

"Ninon?" Porthos says. "Larroque? Oh, Christ, you're d'Artagnan. Fantastic. Hey, Ninon, your corporal just got seconded to us lot."

"What?" Ninon yells. "Porthos? Is that Vallon? Tell him to fuck off my crime scene!"

"It's a free country," Porthos says, grinning and winking at d'Artagnan. "I've got the right to wander onto whatever crime scene I like."

"Get your sticky fingers off my d'Artagnan, then. You don't have the right to dullards!"

d'Artagnan winces at the insult. They're not supposed to use language like that. It's prejudice.

"He's not dull no more," Porthos says. "Came across him chatting to the Captain."

"Bloody hell, Johnny, you couldn't just be normal," Ninon says, sighing. "I'm sorry. It'll be your Dad that's done it, that sucks. Porthos, he's mine until the paperwork goes through. What's Treville even doing there? It's just a boring old suicide."

"Says he's been waiting two days," Porthos says.

The radio gives a high pitched shriek and starts steaming. Porthos curses and tugs it out of d'Artagnan's hand, tearing it open and ripping off the sticker. The radio goes quiet. Porthos puts it together and hands it back. When d'Artagnan presses the button, he just gets static again.

"Sorry," Porthos says. "It's a patch, not meant to work for long. It'll possess the bloody thing if we leave it on, then you'll be in trouble. I had one on my washing machine, because there's a poltergeist living in me flat who likes to play with my tech, and I forgot about it. The washing machine kept shouting at me to wash things. 

Treville, what were you waiting for me about? d'Artagnan you might as well stay. Athos'll have that paperwork in tomorrow, you'll be with us by the end of the week."

"What if I don't want to be?" d'Artagnan asks.

"You'll be seconded no matter what. You can request to go back on patrol if you like," Porthos says, shrugging. "Most don't. It's a fast track to CID, innit? People rarely turn it down."

"Porthos did," Treville says. "Stayed a street cop for three years."

"I liked workin' in the community," Porthos says.

"His boyfriend liked the uniform," Treville says.

Porthos scowls, and mutters something like 'would've been able to get a uniform anyway'. Treville's smile widens, and he opens his mouth to say something else, but Porthos holds up a hand and shakes his head.

"Alrigh', Cap, I'm listening," Porthos says, taking the swing next to Treville and pushing himself to drift.

"This is a pattern," Treville says. "The suicides. There was one last week, another a month before, a year before, a decade, a century. There's been something hanging around here for the past week."

"That's it?" Porthos asks. "And then the suicide? Culmination?"

"Yeah," Treville says. "Half expected another after an hour. Then a minute. Just the one, though. Also, you should know that Charon's back."

"I thought he finally went on," Porthos says.

"Hmm. He's back, I don't know anything else."

Porthos sighs, rubbing his face.

"Who's Charon?" d'Artagnan asks.

"A friend," Porthos says. "A pattern. Right. I'll let Athos know, see if he can think of anything. You know this'll mean digging through old files. Maybe we can rush the paperwork and make d'Artagnan do it."

"I'm staying with Ninon," d'Artagnan says firmly.

Porthos shrugs again, then gets up to go. Treville follows him, and d'Artagnan's left on his own in the dark. His radio crackles, then, when Treville is gone, Ninon’s voice comes through.

"d'Artagnan?"

"Yeah, they're gone," d'Artagnan says.

"Come back down to the scene, then. We're being relieved in ten minutes, and I've got a coffee for you."

d'Artagnan goes back down the park, dazed, head reeling with all that's happened.


	2. Chapter 2

d'Artagnan is called in to the Supernatural Unit before the week is over. He's left to sit in a tiny room with some hard plastic chairs, a water cooler, and three National Geographics from the fifties. He flips through one, amused at the ads, snap chatting the best ones to Constance. He's admiring an ad for Coke when Porthos comes in.

"Heard you were coming in today," Porthos says, sprawling next to d'Artagnan, smiling at him. Porthos has coffee. d'Artagnan wants coffee. All he has is a small cup of water. No one offered him coffee. Porthos smiles at him.

"Yeah," d'Artagnan says. "Any chance of me getting a coffee?"

"Nope," Porthos says. "Not moving, now I'm sat down. Though, hang about a bit, let's see if- Aramis!"

d'Artagnan flinches at the booming yell. Porthos opens his mouth to do it again, and d'Artagnan guards his ears, but before Porthos can shout, a man with a neat beard, moustache, and a grin that promises trouble,sticks his head into the room.

"You bellowed?" The newcomer, who must be Aramis, says.

"Get us a coffee, would you?" Porthos says. "Young d'Artagnan wants one."

"d'Artagnan," Aramis says, eyes scanning d'Artagnan with interest. "Really. So this is Ninon's lamb. How exciting. Get him coffee yourself."

"But me knee hurts," Porthos says, rubbing the appendage.

Aramis shrugs and comes to sit in the chair on the other side of d'Artagnan. Then his eyes light up as he and Porthos exchange a look. Porthos grins.

"Athos!" Porthos bellows.

Aramis beams, sitting back, reaching for the magazine spread on d'Artagnan's knees and flicking through it.

"How old is this?" Aramis asks, flipping to the front cover. "Never mind. d'Artagnan. Porthos tells us you met the Captain."

"Yes?" d'Artagnan says.

"Good, good. Met anyone else, since?" Aramis asks. "Where do you live?"

"I haven't seen any other ghosts, if that's what you mean?" d'Artagnan says, knowing better than to give strangers his address, though he supposes they could just look him up and find it without much trouble.

A new man comes into the room. He's short, compact, with a serious, stern face. He looks around at them, pausing only a moment longer on d'Artagnan. Then he turns on his heel and leaves again. Aramis and Porthos are having a conversation over d'Artagnan's head about whether Aramis did mean ghosts specifically, and they ignore the man. He comes back five minutes later (Porthos and Aramis have started bickering over the exact definition of 'ghost'), with a cup of coffee which he presses on d'Artagnan.

"It's black," he says. "No sugar."

"Coffee from Athos is always black no sugar," Porthos says. "He disapproves of anything else. We've pointed out that Americano is already a break from sacred coffee rules."

"Yeah," Aramis says. "But to be fair to him, he did used to make espressos, but then he got you coffee and you went bonkers on the caffeine."

"I did not," Porthos says.

"You tried to climb out of the window and chase a squirrel," Athos drawls, sitting beside Porthos and opening another of the magazines. "How old are these? We need new magazines."

"No one ever comes in 'ere," Porthos says, taking the magazine from Athos and holding it up, flicking through it, then dropping it back on the table.

"Are we adopting this recruit?" Aramis asks. "Is that why we're all here waiting with him?"

"Nah, I just didn't want to get up for coffee," Porthos says.

"Would you two stop, for five minutes?" Athos says.

"You're just as bad," Aramis says

They all go silent, and d'Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief.

"Did you both see the new resident upstairs?" Aramis asks.

"She scared Jesus out of me," Porthos says, putting his hand to his heart, grinning. "Covered in blood like that."

"We've told you before, it's 'the bejeezus', not 'Jesus'," Aramis says.

"That's nonsense," Porthos says. "What's a bejeezus? Of course it's not. Makes no sense."

"Where as you having Jesus inside you to be scared out makes all the sense in the world," Aramis says.

"Of course Porthos has Jesus in him," Athos says. "He's holy. Hasn't he told you yet?"

"Shut up," Porthos says. "Shut up."

"He hasn't told me," Aramis says, leaning forward and beaming down the line at Athos. "Tell me, do."

"I went into the kitchen this morning only to see-" Athos starts.

Porthos launches himself out of his chair and tackles Athos to the floor. They both hit the table and roll off, knocking chairs away. d'Artagnan wonders if he should pull them apart- Porthos has to be twice Athos' size. But Aramis just sits back to watch, and d'Artagnan takes his cue from that. Superintendent Anne Royal comes in then, anyway. She looks at the two men on the floor, then at Aramis, then she smiles at d'Artagnan.

"I'm ready to see you now, d'Artagnan, would you like to come through?" she says.

d'Artagnan takes a last look at the men who kept him company, then nods gratefully and follows her out. He hears Porthos bellowing with laughter, and looks back to see Athos tickling him and Porthos writhing on the floor. He hurries to catch up to Anne.

"Don't worry about those three," Superintendent Royal says. "You get used to them, if you work here any length of time. Porthos tells me you might want to continue on the street, though?"

"I like my Sergeant, and I like most of the duties," d'Artagnan says. "I'm content."

"Hm. Very well. Let's get you inducted and sort through options, then we can make an informed decision about what to do with you," Superintendent Royal says, opening the door to an office.

d'Artagnan is given a seat and a thick wad of paper, and then Anne suggests they begin with questions he has.

"I don't know," d'Artagnan admits. "I paid little attention to all this, at school. I never showed any signs of..."

"Interesting. Usually there are signs that sensitivity is there. I can go through it all for you?"

"Please," d'Artagnan says, relieved.

"Very well. I'll begin at the beginning. We're the Supernatural Unit, we recruit officers with Sensitivity. Most are just able to see and interact with ghosts, some have other... abilities, that are more or less useful. We also house the Magi Unit, where people who've got at the very least a Bachelors in Magic Use and Control are based."

"Where do I fit in?" d'Artagnan says.

"We'll see what you can do. In all likelihood, if you choose to remain with Ninon, you won't be here much. You'll have to come in to report at the end of each day, but that usually takes less than five minutes, unless you've had contact. You'll also have to join the classes, which is four hours each week, in the evening, usually on a Sunday. Your schedule will shift to allow that. It's important that you understand what it is you can do, in the context of the force. That last eight weeks."

"Okay."

"So, the Magi Unit deal with mages who break the rules of magic. Dark magic, playing around with possession, love potions, that kind of thing. They also deal with big spells that have no permit. Most of what they do is research, and spell-work, really. We also house what is affectionately called the Ghostbusters Unit. They deal with hauntings and unruly poltergeists. Most of our purview is to consult on cases, have a presence on cases. For the most part we work with other departments, CID especially."

"So basically, I can now work anywhere?" d'Artagnan asks.

"Well, to an extent, I suppose so. Oh, there are also the Musketeers. Who you met."

"What do they do? The Musketeers?"

"Athos, Porthos and Aramis. The Inseparables. The Musketeers. The buy-one-get-two-frees. I think they came up with Musketeers themselves, probably because Porthos thought is sounded cool. They're our Major Crimes division. They work on their own, most of the time, though they have access to other departmental resources. They deal with things like murder, child endangerment, kidnappings- basically what the Criminal Investigations Department/Major Crimes Unit does, but when it's supernatural. And, frankly, they get anything weird that CID/MCU don't feel like dealing with."

"Oh."

"Does it sound like something you're interested in? We don't usually stick people in with them. They tend to eat whoever they get 'saddled'- Aramis' word- with, and spit out the bones. Not literally."

"No. I want to stick to the street."

"Good. A man who knows what he wants and focuses on the goal. I like it when people want to keep on patrol, it makes you a better copper. Alright, you'll stick with Ninon, then. I'll sign you up for the class and assign you a mentor, which is who you'll need to check in with every say before you clock off. After the eight week course you'll do a further eight weeks training, which'll be shadowing your mentor, so if you have a preference of somewhere you'd like to work?"

"CID," d'Artagnan says, without pausing. That sounds like the least supernaturally bit. The ghosts and gouls freak him out a little bit, and mages tend to be weird. Except Constance. She's lovely.

"Grand. I've got all your paperwork lined up, then you'll get the grand tour from whoever's hanging around doing least work, which is usually Aramis, and then you can go home," Superintendent Royal says, pulling a stack of paper toward her.

Signing things takes a while. d'Artagnan reads everything carefully, twice. The superintendent doesn't mind that, even encourages d'Artagnan to read and query things. After fifty minutes, he's finally signed the last thing. Superintendent Royal smiles at him and gets up, leading him out and down the hall. She pushes the double doors at the end open, and they walk into a chaotic breakroom. There's some kind of spell on the gravity, and everyone's floating. Three guys are playing rugby, rolling around the room chasing the ball. Someone's trying to catch bubbles of coffee floating up out of a cup. Aramis is floating on his back, a hat over his eyes, sleeping.

Anne Royal walks in without a qualm and clears her throat. The spell drops, and everyone crashes to the floor. Aramis wakes up halfway down and yells, and lands in a potted plant. He jumps up and glares around, then spots Superintendent Royal and scrambles forward, brushing dirt off his clothes.

"Aramis, you're on for doing a tour," the Superintendent says, suppressing a smile.

"Why me?" Aramis asks.

"Because you haven't filed any paperwork in nearly a fortnight, and yet spend your free time napping and no, the reports filled in by Porthos do not count as filing your paperwork."

"How do you always know?"

"Firstly, it's usually just a duplicate of his own report, with a few tiny changes. Secondly, Porthos' spelling is atrocious and always identifiable. Thirdly, I overheard him complaining about doing it in here the other day. Fourthly, and most damningly, he always hand-writes everything. In lead pencil."

"Damn," Aramis says. "He's such an idiot. Alright, young d'Artagnan, off we go on a merry mystery tour. This is the break room, great for naps but slightly perilous. Avoid Merton, the bloke with the ginger beard over by the window. He likes making things fly, and making things explode. He's on the bomb squad, but he's a mage, too. Freaking terrifying guy."

"Right," d'Artagnan says, thinking he'll never come back in here if he can help it.

"Coffee maker, coffees free but never use coffee with a name label on it. It is usually Athos'. He gets mad when Porthos- people steal his coffee, he puts random names to deter Por- people. Fridge with milk, people leave lunches in there. Mages also leave weird stuff in there. I would advise keeping lunch elsewhere. I found a newt in there once. Oh, there's tea, too, but no one drinks tea, right? Let's move along."

Aramis leads his through a red door on the other side of the break room, and through a yellow corridor to a blue door with stars on it.

"Mages’ tower," Aramis says. "No, it's not a real tower. Never say that to them, though. They're touchy. There are offices, but most people hang out in the lab which is... green door."

Aramis pushes it open, then slams it shut. He waits, then grabs d'Artagnan, pushes the door open again and darts inside, shoving d'Artagnan ahead of him, and slams it. There are fish swimming about in the air. d'Artagnan hates mages so much.

"What's with the fish, Henson?" Aramis asks, wandering over to a tall, dark haired man.

"Oh, you know," Henson says, vaguely. "Can you get Porthos out of here? He keeps trying to eat the cake, and it's that Alice in Wonderland stuff Con's been playing with for the Musical Case."

Aramis laughs and grabs d'Artagnan's elbow, towing him through the entranceway into the main lab. It's three stories, high ceilinged, huge. There are desks and tables and boards set up, random collections of herbs, potions and test tubes. Aramis heads for a back corner, where there are spindly tables covered in cupcakes.

"Porthos! No, don't- I should just leave you like that!" A familiar voice says, exasperated and frazzled. d'Artagnan beams at Constance. Her hair's everywhere, she has icing on her cheek, and her hands are stained purple. She turns, face falling in relief at seeing Aramis and then lighting up with a huge smile at seeing d'Artagnan. "d'Art! What are you doing here? Orientation, of course. How did it go with Anne? She's lovely, right? Aramis, Porthos."

Constance points and d'Artagnan glances that way, then does a double take. Rather than Porthos, there's a rather chubby little boy. Or, no, not a child- just a short stubby Porthos. Slightly creepy, really. Aramis laughs delightedly and picks Porthos up.

"Can we keep him like this?" Aramis asks.

"He'll expand in a minute or two, it's just a shape-confusion, not a shift. Though, this being Porthos, he might exceed my expectations," Constance says. "But, d'Artagnan! You have to come for dinner. Tonight. No, not tonight, I'll be here till late. Tomorrow, though. Come for dinner and tell me about meeting Treville."

"Right," d'Artagnan says, watching Porthos.

Porthos suddenly bellows, like a wounded bull, and there's a sucking noise, then a pop. And then Porthos is back to full size, glaring at Constance.

"That 'urt," Porthos says, rubbing his shoulder.

"Shouldn't have eaten the cake," Constance says.

"It said eat me. An', it was purple. An' it had them iced-gems on it. An' silver balls. You know I can't resist the balls, Connie," Porthos says.

"I know no such thing. Now, off you all go, and behave yourselves!" Constance says. She winks at d'Artagnan as Porthos and Aramis lead him away.

The fish, when they go back through the entranceway, are upside down and flashing like Christmas lights. Henson is frowning up at them, hands on his hips. They pop out back into the yellow hallway and then back through the breakroom to the more normal grey cement on the hallway there.

"Where next?" Aramis says. "Ghostbusters? Or the offices?"

"Ghostbusters!" Porthos says, humming the theme tune and bouncing ahead of them.

"Calm down, you nutter," Aramis says, jogging to catch him up. "What has got into you?"

"Purple shrinking cake," Porthos says, sounding both ashamed and proud of himself.

Aramis laughs and turns them around, towing Porthos in the opposite direction. Porthos grasps d'Artagnan's jacket as he passes and yanks d'Artagnan along, too, still humming the Ghostbusters tune. This time there's a normal door, and a normal office set-up: A big, open plan room with cubicles and space to set up case boards, with offices off around the edges.

"Ghostbusters, or Spook Squad," Aramis says, waving an arm around. "Not much goes on here, most of their work is out there. Their library's good, though, if you ever need info on pretty much any magical or supernatural creature, this is the place to come."

Aramis shows him one of the office doors and throws it open to reveal rolling stacks, two small low tables, two comfy chairs.

"What're you after, boys?" A soft voice says, and they all three spin guiltily, hands behind their backs, to face their surprise attacker. "Oh, a newbie. I'm Serge, I keep the books. All the books around here."

"Serge keeps books in his brain, too," Porthos says. "Knows everything. Did you find me the thing about purple eyes, by the way?"

"It's some kind of shade, it's a Celtic, tribal thing, apparently. When a warrior died well, the sky would turn red and purple to mourn, and the light got caught in their eyes," Serge says. "It was a myth, nothing more, until about fifty years ago, when people started seein' it. I got some stuff on them, I dumped it on your desk with a report."

"Great," Porthos says. "They linked with sadness at all?"

"Nope. Your suicides aren't caused by it," Serge says.

"Thanks. We should introduce d'Artagnan to Marsac, while we're down here, 'mis."

"You do that, I'll pop to the bathroom," Aramis says, already leaving.

"He don't like seeing Marsac. They were friends pre-mortem," Porthos says, equably, taking d'Artagnan's arm and leading him through the stacks to the less lit corner, then ringing a bell there. "You don't mind touching, by the way, do you?"

"No," d'Artagnan says, then considers saying yes, wondering if that would stop them yanking him places. He thinks Porthos seems the kind of person to find other ways to yank, though, so he keeps his mouth shut. When he looks away from Porthos, a man is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, scowling.

"What do you want, Vallon?" the man says.

"New recruit. This is d'Artagnan. d'Art, m'boy, meet Marsac, our resident mouldy peach. That's what we call ghosts who've been hanging around too much, like a bad smell."

"Oh how witty," Marsac says. "Nice to meet you, d'Artagnan. I'm sure you're charming. Porthos is not. If you ever want to escape him, you're welcome to my library."

"Thanks," d'Artagnan says.

"C'mon," Porthos says, pulling d'Artagnan away. "Let's go collect Aramis."

"Tell him I say hello," Marsac calls after them.

They meet Aramis back in the hallway, and d'Artagnan's lead up-stairs. There's a small, crowded room with four desks, a dining table, bookshelves, an arm chair and a sideboard with a kettle that looks like a fire-hazard. There are books everywhere, and papers, and files. Athos is sat at one of the desks, tapping away on a laptop. Porthos flings himself into the armchair.

"What did Serge bring me?" Porthos asks. "This is us, by the way, d'Art."

"It fits," d'Artagnan says, peering around. There's a cat asleep on the windowsill, a giant, orange furball, spread out like a pudlde of marmalade.

"Doesn't it?" Aramis says, beaming at him, sorting through a pile of books. He throws one at Porthos' head, which Porthos catches.

"Ooh, nice. I like these ones. There are pictures," Porthos says.

"Careful with the green one," Athos says. "It's old as dust. I got zapped by it, so keep it away from Porthos."

"Zapped?" d'Artagnan asks, looking at the green book Aramis picks up. He reaches out, compelled, and touches it. There's a rush, the muttering of voices, the scratch of a pen, the clank of machines, the smell of dry paper and wet ink, and then it's gone. "Oh. Wow."

"That's a zap," Athos says. "Most people with Sensitivity get them. Porthos' are worse- better? Than most. Useful, when you're interviewing people or looking for lost people."

"Like Ned the Pieman, too," Porthos says, wriggling his fingers and grinning. "If the death's gruesome enough to linger, I can get sometimes see what happened."

"That sounds awful," d'Artagnan says.

"Eh," Porthos says, shrugging, flicking a few pages of the book before bouncing back to his feet. "Come visit the other offices. You should meet DI de Winter. She works with CID."

DI de Winter turns out to be terrifying, efficient, and impatient. She banishes Porthos from the office when he can't stay still, and ignores Aramis' attempts at being charming. d'Artagnan she gives a brisk smile and a brief summary of what she does with CID, then she shoos them all away. The rest of the offices are similar, Sergeants and Inspectors mostly, working with various departments. Most are three or four to an office. There are a few Corporals, but d'Artagnan only sees one uniform. Everyone else seems to be plain clothes. There's a Bomb Squad unit housed in the Supernatural Unit, too - a scattering of offices, a big shared office, and lots of space to work. Almost a lab. There are fire-proof, bullet-proof, and bomb-proof clothes hanging everywhere, and there's a Mage poking at something on the table. She looks up, spots them, waves, and then whatever she was poking explodes.

d'Artagnan feels a surge of memories crowding him, a bright sunny day at the park, the smell of grass, Hannah Whatley's smile, Junior the dog, the feel of rain, school, fists connection, blood, barbequed meat, more bright sunshine, water. He gasps, remembering climbing the tree to the post office room, remembering hiding in the ditch, remembering the plough horse kicking his father. He comes out of it and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Oops, sorry," the Mage says. "At least I know what it does now, though."

"Porthos?" Aramis says.

Porthos is kneeling, eyes wide. They've gone silver, around the irises, just traces. Aramis crouches, peering into Porthos' face.

"Vallon?" The woman asks. "Bugger. I forgot. Hang on, I can fix it in a jiffy."

"No," Aramis says, "don't-"

The woman comes over with a stick of beeswax, which she snaps in front of Porthos' nose, muttering a spell. Porthos' eyes flood with silver, no iris or pupil or white- just silver. Then the room feels like it's underwater, and then the sensation is gone and Porthos' eyes shut, and he collapses forward.

"I said no," Aramis snaps. "It doesn't work with him. Never mind, he'll come around in a minute. If all the printers stop working again, I'm blaming you, Marguerite. Fucking useless."

Porthos stirs on the floor and sits up, blinking. He looks at each of them in turn, then glares at Aramis.

"Leave 'er alone, you dick. She was doin' 'er job," Porthos says. "Don't worry, Grit, I'm good."

"Sure, just a migraine and a cricked neck and at least three generations of memories that aren’t yours," Aramis snaps, getting to his feet and storming out.

"Sorry Grit," Porthos says, sighing. "Oh, d'Artagnan. Right. Tour's over, I guess. Sorry about the dramatic end. Some kinda truth bomb?"

"Yes, it's actually cool," Marguerite says, staring after Aramis. "I couldn't work it out, because it was hidden with a concealer charm, but there's a nice twist to it. Did you feel like you were connected to the memories? It scans whoever's in the vicinity, picks up their DNA and matches as close as it can. You probably saw ancestors of yours. Isn't that cool?"

"Yeah," Porthos says, darkly. "Saw a lot of chains."

"Oh. Sorry," Marguerite says.

"No, not you," Porthos says, waving her away. "d'Artagnan, help me up, I'll show you out. You should take it to Con, Grit. She loves all that memory shit."

"Good idea," Marguerite says, perking up.

She's muttering to herself when they leave, pouring over the sphere again. There's no sign of Aramis. When d'Artagnan asks, Porthos just shrugs and mutters something about not pissing where you sleep, which makes no sense.

**

"...and so, if you see a ghost who has a non-corporeal look, it's probably a shade and you should probably run like hell, according to the Professor. According to Porthos, you should stay to finish your sandwich if you're eating a sandwich, he said that with a pointed glare at Athos so I think there's a story there. According to Athos, you should burn shit down and salt the earth and start again in twenty years time. Pretty sure there's a story there, too," d'Artagnan says, keeping step at Ninon's side.

"The Musketeers seem to have adopted you," she observes.

"Yeah, well, apparently Athos suggested to Superintendent Royal that he be my mentor, and then Porthos bribed all the CID officers to refuse to mentor me, and Aramis swore upside down and sideways that it wasn't him when the Superintendent asked."

"They have a way of telling stories, don't they?" Ninon says.

"I'm not leaving you to work with them," d'Artagnan says.

"Don't worry about it, pipsqueak. Let's do these last four weeks, you do you eight weeks with the Idiot Squad, and then we'll see."

"They are kind of idiots, aren't they?"

"Brightest bunch of idiots I've ever met," Ninon concedes. "Athos especially. But yes."

"He's great," d'Artagnan says, sighing.


	3. Chapter 3

d'Artagnan's sat in the Musketeers' office, stroking the cat. He's supposedly shadowing Athos, as of today, but none of the Musketeers seem to be anywhere around. He could go knock on Superintendent Royal's door and ask her. He's signed in, though, and he was directed up here with a wave of the hand. People have got used to seeing him around, so they might have just thought he was visiting again. Still. Better just sit tight with Marmalade (Athos insists the cat's called Mr Whiskers, Aramis insists the cats called Robert, and Porthos insists the cat's called Federico Garcia Lorca. So d'Artagnan just named her himself. Now he insists her name is Marmalade).

 

"I told you, didn't I tell you?" Aramis' voice says, from out in the hall.

 

Both d'Artagnan and Mr Whiskers/Robert/Federico Garcia Lorca/Marmalade perk up, watching the door.

 

"No," Porthos says.

 

"Athos, you remember that I- Porthos!" Aramis says.

 

"Both of you shut up. I've got him, Aramis, stop shouting," Athos says.

 

The door opens and Aramis backs in, then Athos leads Porthos in, holding him under the arm and at the elbow. Athos brings Porthos over to the window seat, notices it's occupied, and blinks until d'Artagnan vacates the spot. Athos lowers Porthos to sit, crouching in front of him.

 

"Alright?" Athos asks.

 

"Fine," Porthos says, frowning, rubbing his finger and thumb together. "Am I made out 'a glass, Athos?"

 

"No," Athos says.

 

"Oh. Maybe i's water," Porthos murmurs. "Ice in my heart. Just a pinch."

 

"No," Athos says.

 

"Oh," Porthos says.

 

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asks, poking Porthos' shoulder.

 

Porthos looks up at him, smiles, then goes back to contemplating the pads of his fingers. Aramis huffs out an annoyed breath and pushes Athos out of the way, pressing a knee to the window seat and leaning close to Porthos. He tilts Porthos' head back and holds open his eyes, flushing them out one by one with silver liquid.

 

"He looked at a Snow Angel," Aramis says. "The idiot."

 

"Wasn' a nangle," Porthos says, blinking rapidly. "Was a snow goddess. Was beau'iful. A boo'ful boo'ful goddess. Made me into snow with her, to dance."

 

"What are Snow Angels? I haven't come across them," d'Artagnan says.

 

"That sort of super bright light that's in the snow? You can only really see it if you can See, but you get bright reflections. They're..." Athos trails off.

 

"Hearts," Porthos murmurs. "They're hearts. All their hearts. Get trapped, and mix up and become light ladies. They're boo'full. They enrapture you, if you look right at 'em, if you can See."

 

"Usually you just act a bit drunk. Porthos is an overachiever," Aramis says.

 

"They're so so sad," Porthos says.

 

"They're, sort of, receptacles for fragments of emotion. They're not well documented or studied properly. Porthos thinks they're fragments of ghosts, when the soul is not whole upon death," Athos says.

 

"You can break your _ soul _ ?" d'Artagnan asks, horrified.

 

"Other people break it," Porthos whispers. "With cruelty. It's not hard, people are usually fragmented. That's why ghosts are sometimes very determined, or more angry than seems reasonable, or focussed on weird things. Just bits of whoever it was."

 

"This is mostly just theory, which is why you don't learn it in your intro classes. Are you here for your eight weeks?" Aramis asks, pulling out a small torch and tilting Porthos' head again, examining his eyes. "You still have pieces of her here. You've got gold irises. Come look, young padawan."

 

Athos gently boops d'Artagnan’s shoulder with a book, and he realises that Aramis means him and obediently trots over. Clearly it's not just Marmalade who's going to have lots of names. Aramis shines a light into Porthos' eyes, and they eyes sparkle with gold. It's beautiful. d'Artagnan breathes sharply in, gazing at Porthos’ face.

 

"Beautiful, no?" Aramis says. "We use this potion to flush out his eyes. You should learn this, because he does it often. It's number- you should write it down. It's number eight, we keep it on the shelf with the others, out of Lorca's reach. You need to tip his head back, he might fight sometimes but he's lovely and good for us today, aren't you?"

 

"Yeah," Porthos says. "We're gonna go dancing, later. When you're done."

 

"Alright," Aramis says. "When I'm done. Hold his eyes open, he'll close it automatically. Don't force it, it should be fine just holding it. Then, there's a dropper as part of the lid to this, see?"

 

d'Artagnan examines the lid and nods, sketching it in his notebook in case it's useful. Aramis draws up more of the silver potion and drops it into Porthos' eyes. Porthos blinks, and the gold fades. Aramis repeats it with the other eye, then shines the light again. There's only a few specks of gold in the right eye now.

 

"One more time," Aramis says.

 

"I'll find the ibuprofen," Athos says.

 

"You do it, this time," Aramis says, passing over the dropper, already full of potion. d'Artagnan tilts Porthos' head and holds open the right eye, squeezing the liquid in. "Now let him blink. That's it. Test with the light... ah! There we go. All gone."

 

"Great. Now I just have a pounding headache. You should've let me dance, 'mis," Porthos says.

 

Athos passes him a blister pack and a water bottle, and Porthos pops three. They all watch him, until he grumbles and waves them off.

 

"I know, I know. We must not look at the goblin men, we must not buy their fruits," Porthos mutters, curling up on the window seat and shutting his eyes. Athos covers him with a blanket and goes to his desk.

 

"d'Artagnan, over here. We've got paperwork to do, you need to learn about these forms," Athos says.

 

Porthos naps away the afternoon, and d'Artagnan is bored out of his skull by the many, many forms that seem to be involved with the Supernatural Unit. There are forms for potions used, forms for medical expenses, forms for reporting contact with a.) substance, b.) a consciousness, c.) a creature or d.) a contaminant, with option d having supplementary forms. Athos also sorts out his badge so he doesn't have to sign in as a guest every morning, he just scans his badge like the others. And gets him a canteen card.

 

"I wouldn't eat there on a Thursday after three. There's a rather bad-tempered ghost who sits there most of the afternoon," Athos says, passing the canteen card over.

 

"I like her," Aramis says. "She's got spirit."

 

"She might eat him," Athos says.

 

"Oh yeah. That was weird. I never knew a ghost could do that," Aramis says. "Maybe avoid the canteen after three on a Thursday."

 

d'Artagnan can't decide if he really wants to take that advice, or if he really wants to go investigate. Actually, he knows good and well that he's too curious for his own good and wants to go take a look at this ghost, but he also knows good and well that he wants to impress these three men. That could possibly mean that he acts as much like a grown up as he can. Or it could mean that he goes and pokes around the canteen.

 

**

 

"How are you settling in with them?" Ninon asks, over a pint, on Friday.

 

"It's boring. We haven't done anything. We just sit around the office most days. Aramis is some kind of academic and writes papers, Athos writes up encounters they've had for records, and Porthos mostly seems to get into trouble and nap on the windowsill. I think he's more cat than the cat is," d'Artagnan says.

 

"Sounds about right," Ninon says. "They're probably waiting for something to get back from the labs, or for a ghost to turn up, or for SI- Supernatural Intelligence- to come through with something. It'll pick up, don't worry."

 

"Hmm. Porthos went down to the Magi Unit today, and came back entirely gold, with fish stuck to him. Apparently it would wear off in a few hours. Yesterday he got into a brawl, at half past eleven in the morning, outside a pub, and came into the office with a split lip. Then, in the afternoon he came back with snow shadows all over him. You know snow shadows?"

 

"Nope."

 

"They're the part of a person that dies before they die, when they get really really cold, apparently. People die a lot in cold, so snow is apparently full of phenomena. I learned about snow angels, too, this week."

 

"Them I know. Porthos again?"

 

"Of course. The snow shadows were apparently just hugging him, and he didn't mind. He napped on the window seat, but then he got really really cold and we had to go get one of the Mages to come and banish the shadows. Athos says he could have done it, but he was too busy, and Aramis says he could have done it too, but he was in the middle of reading an essay."

 

"Porthos doesn't really do down time," Ninon says.

 

"No. Clearly."

 

"What have you been doing, while Athos and Aramis are writing and Porthos is causing trouble?"

 

"Filling in reports. Pretend reports. Athos says I have to learn how to do all of them. If I get it wrong, I have to do the report again and from an entirely new incident. Porthos makes up the incidents, and they're really weird."

 

"Sounds good."

 

"It's not! It's boring!"

 

"It'll pick up. Another pint?"

 

"Yeah."

 

**

 

'Pick up' turns out to be an understatement. On Monday afternoon, d'Artagnan’s filling in yet another form, Porthos comes running into the office. Aramis moves towards their first aid shelves (d'Artagnan is beginning to understand why they have shelves instead of a kit). Athos raises an eyebrow.

 

"Got it," Porthos says, smugly. "Shoes and coats, boys and girls, we're up."

 

Aramis and Athos immediately get their coats and head out, d'Artagnan struggling to save his report, put his shoes back on and get his coat and catch them up. Porthos is waiting for him by the front desk, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grins at d'Artagnan and slings an arm around his shoulders.

 

"Now you're gonna see something," Porthos says.

 

They pile into a tiny car, from about three decades ago, and clank and grind their way back to the park where d'Artagnan first met Porthos. Treville's waiting for them on the pavement. Aramis, d'Artagnan realises, had brought Marmalade along. The cat struggles in Aramis' arms as they walk up through the park, to the top. Porthos comes to a stop between two big, old oak trees.

 

"Here," Treville agrees, also stopping. "Did you get the spell?"

 

"Nope, but the Magi Unit did," Porthos says. "Got a recording, on Connie's new app. We're testing it for her. If it doesn't work, I've got the old film canister thing, but it's less potent. Aramis found the words, Athos found the phenomena, Constance made up the spell."

 

"You're the conduit?" Treville asks, pacing a circle around Porthos.

 

"No," Porthos says. "He is."

 

d'Artagnan realises that Porthos is pointing at him. He backs away.

 

"Wait, what?" d'Artagnan says. "Conduit? For a spell? I don't think so. I didn't sign anything about that. Did I? Why me?"

 

"Because," Porthos says. "Come here."

 

"Did I sign something?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

Athos nods. d'Artagnan goes to stand in front of Porthos, and Porthos holds him by the shoulders, moving him an inch. Then, before d'Artagnan can think of anything else to say or do, he's doused in water. Porthos steps out of the rough circle Treville has drawn over his footsteps, with Athos following along behind. Physical and metaphysical circles. This must be a big spell.

 

"Hang on," Aramis says.

 

They scramble over each to one of the oak trees, and then Porthos throws his phone to Athos, who points it at d'Artagnan and presses a button. There's a moment when nothing happens, then it's as if the world takes a huge deep breath, and then it's like being engulfed in fire. d'Artagnan can hear Porthos 'whoop'ing, and Mr Whiskers yowling, and the there's just wind, screaming voices, and darkness.

 

When the sun comes back, d'Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief. He's still stood in the centre of the circle. He looks around, expecting destruction. The day looks exactly the same, except Mr Whiskers is sniffing around the ground, now, out of Aramis' arms.

 

"Wow! Did you feel that?" Porthos yells. "You can get out the circle, pup. That was awesome!"

 

"What was it?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"It was a nine, on Aramis’s scale," Athos says, scribbling in his book. "Does Robert have anything? Porthos?"

 

"Nothing," Porthos says. "That was fun, though. We should do it again."

 

"Your cat's running away," d'Artagnan says.

 

Porthos yells with joy again and takes off after the cat, Athos and Aramis on his heels. d'Artagnan follows, completely lost. He stumbles along, following the sound of Porthos laughing wildly. When he catches up, the other three are stood in a circle around the cat. d'Artagnan joins them, breathless.

 

"You should come runnin' with me," Porthos says, slapping d'Artagnan on the back. "Ath, this is just ano- oh, no it's not, hang about. Here we go, guys."

 

"Porthos!" Aramis cries, in alarm.

 

d'Artagnan grabs Porthos on instinct, and for a second sees white. Then it clears. The cat's gone, haring off with a protesting yowl. Instead, in the middle of their circle, is a little girl, maybe four years old.

 

"Shit," Porthos says, crouching, away from d'Artagnan's hold.

 

"Grab him, d'Artagnan!" Aramis says.

 

d'Artagnan crouches too, pressing a hand to Porthos' neck. He doesn't know why, or what's happening, really, but he does as he's told and works on instinct. He has good instincts.

 

"Hello, what's your name?" Porthos says. "Aw, look, I know I'm big, but I ain't gonna hurt ya. I'm just like a dog. It's the little ones you need to watch your fingers with, right? Big 'uns like me are just for cuddling. Right?"

 

The little girl nods, reaching out to touch Porthos' hair. She threads her fingers into it, then smiles.

 

"Soft, in't it?" Porthos says. "I've got good hair."

 

"You got hair like mine," the girl says.

 

Porthos' hand nearly envelopes her entire head, when he reaches out to see if he agrees with her.

 

"Yep," Porthos says, "just like that. Your Mum do yours, too, to keep it from knotting and frizzing everywhere?"

 

"Uh-huh. Got any lolly pops?"

 

"Nope. You been upset, recent?" Porthos asks.

 

"Nope. Just Grandpa's upset, but he always is."

 

"Uh-huh," Porthos says, nodding. He's matching her syntax on purpose, d'Artagnan realises. "Athos, did you bring the silly stuff?"

 

Athos hands Porthos a small white packet. Porthos shakes it.

 

"Hmm. You like sugar?" he asks the girl.

 

She nods, opening her mouth. Porthos pours some in. She shrieks, a high, adult sound that's all anger. It deepens as it goes on, and she spits at Porthos over and over, shape changing, turning, twisting, distorting. Eventually an old, wrinkled man straightens up out of it, face like thunder.

 

"What are you doin' to my girly? She's mine," the man roars. "You salted my girl?"

 

"Fragments," Aramis murmurs to d'Artagnan. "Someone's pieces of consciousness."

 

"Who else have you got stashed in there, eh?" Porthos asks. "I recognise your rage, but it ain't what's makin' people kill 'emselves. Too much anger. That sorrow isn't yours, is it? That belongs to someone else. Not hers, either. I'm glad 'a that. Not that little girl's."

 

"This sorrow, I've been carrying it, so it must be mine," the old man says.

 

"No. Who else is in your family? You, your granddaughter. Who else died?" Aramis asks.

 

The old man turns on him, sneering, and spits. Salt sprays Aramis' face.

 

"Athos?" Porthos says.

 

Athos steps forwards a little, pulling out a jar of water. There's a red label, and Athos handles is carefully. Some kind of eroding potion, maybe. The old man spins on Athos, shouting, the sound coming as if from a distance.

 

"Oh yes," Porthos says. "Here's the sadness. It would be you, wouldn't it? What's your name?"

 

There's no shape, this time, just blurred lines and distortion, nothing to fix the eye on. d'Artagnan feels dizzy trying.

 

"These guys are like the angels," Aramis whispers. "fragments of soul. They're called Furies. They're created when a person lives and dies in agony, with no respite. This one, we think, was a slave."

 

"You don't know your name," Porthos says, voice hoarse. "No, I can see that. People can't live with this kind of darkness. You are causing... people cannot live with this kind of pain."

 

_ "I did." _

 

The voice comes from outside the shape. The sound is all around them, as if it's inhabiting every molecule.

 

"People die," Porthos says.

 

_ "I am death. Those who die have blood that tastes like shackles and sea salt. I know their iron, Porthos. I know your iron, too. You got a shackle you drag with you, like all our people." _

 

"I do. I've got a lot more besides that, too," Porthos says. "I've got more than my skin. I've got love, and compassion, and empathy."

 

_ "What use have those to me? What use were those to people like me?" _

 

"Porthos, you're not supposed to be arguing," Athos says. "No debates."

 

"I won't," Porthos says, looking across at Athos. "I can't. You know I can't."

 

"Then we do this with the spell," Athos says.

 

"No," Porthos says. "No. If I name her-"

 

"We don't have her name," Athos snaps. "The name we do have will cause more damage."

 

"Then, then, then," Porthos stutters, then he settles. "Then I will do it this way. I can't name you, but I can call you."

 

_ "Anyone may do that. If they want something with iron in it, I can find the twist." _

 

"I won't call you like that," Porthos says. "I can't name you, but I can tell you who you are, and where you come from, and where your future lies. I can call you.

 

"You may write me down in history   
With your bitter, twisted lies,   
You may tread me in the very dirt   
But still, like dust, I'll rise.   
  
Does my sassiness upset you?    
Why are you beset with gloom?    
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells   
Pumping in my living room.   
  
Just like moons and like suns,   
With the certainty of tides,   
Just like hopes springing high,   
Still I'll rise.   
  
Did you want to see me broken?    
Bowed head and lowered eyes?    
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.   
Weakened by my soulful cries.   
  
Does my haughtiness offend you?    
Don't you take it awful hard   
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines   
Diggin' in my own back yard.   
  
You may shoot me with your words,   
You may cut me with your eyes,   
You may kill me with your hatefulness,   
But still, like air, I'll rise.   
  
Does my sexiness upset you?    
Does it come as a surprise   
That I dance like I've got diamonds   
At the meeting of my thighs?    
  
Out of the huts of history's shame   
I rise   
Up from a past that's rooted in pain   
I rise   
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,   
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.   
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear   
I rise   
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear   
I rise   
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,   
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.   
I rise   
I rise   
I rise."

 

As Porthos chants, the wet mud beneath their boots gives way to dust. Porthos stamps his feet and the shape morphs and changes, bare feet treading the hot dust, the shape sun-lit, though there's no sun. As the poem goes on, the shape coalesces into a thin, dark woman, barely past girl-hood. She beats the song of the words into the ground and dances, spinning and twirling. As the final three lines fall into the quiet evening, the shape disperses, the sun-hot dust, the sun-drenched girl, all fade.

 

"I'll show her the way," Treville says, from outside their circle. He vanishes, too, before d'Artagnan can even properly place him.

 

"Maya Angelou," Athos says, dryly. "That's one way of doing things."

 

"I thought that was inspired," Aramis says, pulling Porthos up to his feet.

 

"What was I meant to do?" Porthos asks, anger and sadness warring in his voice. "What was I meant to do? You heard her about my iron."

 

"You did what you always do," Athos says, much gentler than d'Artagnan has ever heard him. "You saved her. You saved all of them."

 

Athos steps across the circle to Porthos, and looks at him for a while, head tilted on one side. Then, Athos unwinds himself from a wide scarf, which he wraps around Porthos' neck and shoulders, draping it like a shawl. Porthos ducks his head into the scarf, hiding a smile. Athos and Porthos walk back arm in arm, Aramis and d'Artagnan bringing up the rear, Aramis telling d'Artagnan about Furies.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maya Angelou was one of the greatest poets, greatest people, who ever inhabited this world, and I hope she will not take against me using her words like this. As ever with something that rightly belongs to anyone except my very white self, if anyone has a problem with my use of these words or anything in this fic, feel free to let me know. I do my best, but I am still learning and know there's a long ways to go.


	4. Chapter 4

"Got something for you, Vallon," a DI who d'Artagnan vaguely knows from Major Crimes pokes his head into the Musketeers office on the Wednesday of d'Artagnan's third week.  

 

"He's asleep," d'Artagnan says, not looking up from his crossword.

 

Aramis is in Superintendent Royal's office, flirting as far as d'Artagnan has been able to gather but possibly having sex on the desk. Athos is out at the British Library doing research. It's just d'Artagnan sitting with his feet up on Aramis' desk, Marmalade drowsing on top of the filing cabinet, and Porthos asleep on the window seat.

 

"Can you wake him?" the sergeant (Bones? Grimes? Goodfellow?) says.

 

"I'll take a message," d'Artagnan says, frowning over six down. Could it be dislocation?

 

"Tell him Sergeant Bertrand has something for him," DI Bertrand says.

 

"Leave the file and he'll look over it," d'Artagnan says. It must be dislocation, because that would fit with lane and orient. d'Artagnan fills it carefully in. Athos docks him points if his handwriting is bad.

 

d'Artagnan looks up, and Bertrand sighs out harshly through his nose, but hands over the file and leaves. Porthos stretches on the windowseat, and Robert jumps down, mewling questioningly, close to his food bowl.

 

"What's the file say?" Porthos asks, pulling a chair over and sitting opposite d'Artagnan.

 

"Hmm," d'Artagnan says, scanning it. "It sounds like a Nightflyer, maybe? Either that, or a mage playing with dark fire, like last time."

 

"Where?"

 

"Shepherds Bush, over by the Station. Something about very dark nights, and random bursts of fog, and people reporting twisted clothing."

 

"Eh, send it back. Let Bernie do his own work, it's not a hard one," Porthos says, leaning back in the chair.

 

"Oh, wait. One of the reports... something about a house randomly appearing in the middle of the busy intersection."

 

"More interestin'. Could still be a Nightflyer, they use illusions."

 

"It's solid. It appears after the other phenomena. There's a woman, apparently all in white."

 

"Huh. An imitation of a Nightflyer, with a ghostie twist. Nice. Let's go have a look."

 

Shepherds Bush at five thirty turns out to be busy. They get the tube, and when they arrive d'Artagnan hears an audible 'pop' as they leave the station and the people previously jammed together so tight it was hard to breath, now rapidly disperse in different directions, reeling away from one another. It might just be d'Artagnan doing the reeling. Porthos steadies him, laughing.

 

"Shutup," d'Artagnan mutters.

 

"Alright, alright, keep your hair on. It's lovely hair, wouldn't want to lose it to a fit of rush hour grouchiness. Where'd the report say, other than the middle of the road?"

 

d'Artagnan opens his mouth to defend his hair, then closes it again. Then he opens it to tell Porthos he just turned a dead metaphor ridiculously literal, then closes it again. Then he opens his mouth to answer the question. By this time Porthos is laughing at him again.

 

"On the other bit of road, going off to the left," d'Artagnan says. "It was spotted mostly by people on the island in the middle. No cars drove into it, somehow. Just one articulated lorry."

 

"The mass'll do it," Porthos says. "Do you mean the A3220?"

 

"Probably. It was A-something."

 

Porthos drags d'Artagnan to the traffic lights and bounces on his toes, grinning, waiting for the green man. They cross to the middle and then stop, much to the annoyance of their fellow crossers. Porthos pulls d'Artagnan out of their way and looks around.

 

"Stop tugging on me," d'Artagnan grumbles.

 

Porthos ignores him, head tilted on one side, turning a slow circle. He shrugs at d'Artagnan and rummages in the backpack he brought, pulling out what looks like an old cassette walkman. The little door bit where the tape's meant to go has been replaced with a small screen. Porthos offers d'Artagnan one earphone, so d'Artagnan sticks it in. He has no idea what to expect, but isn't surprised by the static. Porthos frowns and pulls out the aerial, waving it around. The static buzzes higher pitched at one spot.

 

It's like tuning a radio. Lots of static and buzzing, and then- sudden clarity. d'Artagnan jumps when Porthos hits the right spot. There's a woman singing, far away, as if through something muffling her. Like a pillow. Porthos holds the aerial steady and studies the screen, tapping it a few times.

 

"What is that?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

“No idea. It’s not a Nightflyer, though. Or a ghost. Ooh, look at these,” Porthos says, prodding the screen and pulling up a graph with spikes on. “Fun. I wonder what they are?”

 

“What do spikes mean?” d’Artagnan asks, only half interested in the answer- he’s distracted by the singing that’s still in his ear.

 

“Energy. Or, not energy. Usually we use graphs to show energy, but like different types. So this graph is collecting data to show me… I dunno the technical name, you’ll have to ask Athos. It’s, like, when a ghostie turns up, there’s a change in sound and radio waves, that’s why the radios go funny. That shows up as an energy spike, sound energy or whatever. This is… like, emotional energy, I guess? Probably anger, but might be grief, they’re pretty close and this dumb thing can’t really tell the difference.”

 

“Your explanations of things are shit,” d’Artagnan says. “Shh, let me listen to the singing.”

 

Porthos promptly pulls the headphone out of d’Artagnan’s ear. d’Artagnan gets a horrible urge to hurt Porthos. Just hurt him, damage him, tear his skin off with fingernails or push him into the oncoming traffic. Porthos jerks backwards, into the railing, and shakes his head like a wet dog. d’Artagnan’s anger fades as fast as it came.

 

“Wow. That was cool. Very percussive,” Porthos says, grinning, grabbing d’Artagnan’s elbow in time to steady him through a wave of dizziness. “Sorry, I didn’t notice. The singing was prob’ly some kind of siren thing. Which is interesting.”

 

“Why didn’t it do… that… to you?”

 

“There’s a really silly theory that siren song doesn’t work on gay people,” Porthos says, laughing. “That’s just because of confusion over it being sexual. It’s not, it’s just a pretty basic spell that draws people who can See in. It don’t work on everyone. Think it has sommat to do with, you know… no you don’t know obviously. Um, musicality? People who are good at music are worse off. I’m pretty tone deaf.”

 

“I’ve heard you sing, I know this,” d’Artagnan says, darkly. He hadn’t been sure if Marmalade had been dying, or if an alarm of some kind was going off, or if something was on fire.

 

“Yeah, see? Rubbish at music, me. This is cool, though. Very weird. Spell plus ghostie plus some kind of emotional fragment. Interesting. Let’s go dig Serge out. Oh, fantastic, I can send you to talk to Marsac, he might have some ideas.”

 

“You and Marsac…?”

 

“Let’s just say we don’ see eye to eye about certain past actions,” Porthos says.

 

Marsac is about as forthcoming as Porthos, though he says they don’t like one another because Porthos is ‘the back-end of an ass, the arsehole of a horse, and some kind of slug all mixed up together’. He gives d’Artagnan a book about haunted houses and sends him on his way. Porthos appears with three thick volumes from Serge, and d’Artagnan is happy with their division of labour. Until Porthos dumps two of the tomes on Aramis’ desk for d’Artagnan to read and buggers off.

 

“Hey, where are you going?” d’Artagnan calls.

 

“Food,” Porthos says. “Piss. Athos.”

 

d’Artagnan grumbles to Marmalade, who curls in d’Artagnan’s lap to purr. d’Artagnan spends the rest of the day making notes. Porthos re-appears at five with Athos, but he just curls up on the windowseat to nap. d’Artagnan scowls.

 

“He’s tired,” Athos says, abruptly, ten minutes later. “Stop trying to set him on fire with your eyes.”

 

“I’m tired,” d’Artagnan whines. He’s aware he’s whining. He’s allowed to whine. He’s being hard done by.

 

Athos is silent for a while, then takes up the third tome and flicks through, making notes. When he’s done, he commandeers one of d’Artagnan’s. d’Artagnan gets him coffee and cake in thanks. Porthos doesn’t get any coffee, or cake, even though he’s awake by that point. Athos ruins it by giving Porthos half the cake.

 

“Why’s the puppy looking so puppy-ish?” Aramis asks, wandering in about six thirty. “Did we break him finally?”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “He’s sad because we didn’t share our cake with him.”

 

“ _ Athos’ _ cake!” d’Artagnan bursts out. “I got it for Athos, not you! Because _ Athos _ helped with the research, and didn’t just go to sleep like _ some _ people, leaving me to do everything!”

 

“Or that,” Porthos says, shrugging, licking the last of the chocolate frosting off the fork and smacking his lips. He grins at d’Artagnan, amused, and sort of fond, maybe.

 

“He didn’t sleep last night,” Aramis says, flopping down next to d’Artagnan and kicking his feet up, stretching around a yawn. “Was out looking for Charon.”

 

“I was not,” Porthos says. “I was damned well looking for Perecles, because SI lost the bugger in the sea and apparently he was supposed to be furnishing them with vital information. I found ‘im. I’m brilliant.”

 

“Oh right,” Aramis says. “And looking for Charon, though. This morning he did an interview with a rape victim, too. That always sucks.”

 

“Alright, alright, I get the idea,” d’Artagnan grumbles, waving Aramis away. “I don’t begrudge you cake, I suppose, Porthos.”

 

“Good. You should go home and nap, now. Did you find anything? We’ll go out about eleven thirty, see what we can find,” Porthos says.

 

“I’m not going out at midnight,” Aramis says. “I’m going home to sleep.”

 

“Louis’ away, right?” Porthos says, and Aramis throws a stapler at his head. It misses. Lorca hisses at Aramis for causing a disturbance.

 

“I’m not, either,” Athos says.

 

“Just you an’ me, then, pup,” Porthos says. “Seriously, go home, get some sleep. I’ll pick you up eleven thirty. I’ll bring my car, instead of Aramis’ hunk of junk. We’ll do brilliantly.”

 

“Take mine,” Athos says. “It’s less likely to break.”

 

“My car’s beautiful,” Porthos protests.

 

“Yes, but it has you in it, and therefor it has a ghoul in it, and the ghoul keeps eating bits of it and you don’t notice,” Athos says.

 

“You have a car eating ghoul?” d’Artagnan asks.

 

“Go, sleep,” Porthos says. “Leave me to argue with Athos. It’s not a ghoul. It’s a sheep.”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan says.

 

“He’s winding me up, it’s an old joke. I was very drunk, and I called a sheet-shade a sheep.”

 

“Sheet shade?” d’Artagnan asks, so very lost.

 

“You know, you’re stereotypical… woooo!... in a sheet,” Aramis says, waving his arms around. “Like Casper.”

 

“Casper wasn’t a sheet-shade,” Athos says. “He was a fragma-plasma.”

 

“No he wasn’t,” Aramis says.

 

d’Artagnan gets out before his head explodes. He takes Porthos’ advice and goes to nap, but he goes to Constance’s instead of his flat. She’s home, poking around at some knitting, and she beams at him and offers him chocolate and is perfect.

 

It’s cold in Athos’ car. Athos clearly won that argument. When d’Artagnan tries to put the heating on, Porthos stops him and grimaces, muttering something about it attracting sheep. d’Artagnan theorizes that he’s brought his car eating ghoul with him in Athos’ car, and he wonders what Athos will do about that. Porthos lets the engine idle until d’Artagnan does his seat belt, then peels away with a squeal of tyres.

 

Porthos, it turns out, drives like a nineteen year old ‘lad’ with his first car. d’Artagnan clings to the ‘oh shit’ handle and prays to every God he’s ever heard of. It must work- they arrive in one piece. d’Artagnan gets out on slightly shaky legs and glares at Porthos.

 

“Whoo! Lucky we’ve not got Athos with us, eh? He drives like an old lady,” Porthos says, bouncing about. He hits the bonnet of the car affectionately. “I’ll be back later, Jerry, please don’t eat anything Athos’ll notice too quick.”

 

“Do ghouls speak English?” d’Artagnan wonders aloud.

 

“No idea, they’re not really communicative. We’ve got an understandin’, though, Jerry and me. I let ‘im loose in the car engines, and he keeps the cars clean. It’s alright.”

 

“Except when the cars break.”

 

“He’ll fix ‘em, eventually, when he feels like stealing stuff to make new bits,” Porthos says, walking with his hands in his pocket, looking at peace with his world. d’Artagnan tries to replicate it, but he’s pretty sure he’s just swaggering.

 

They camp out on the same island they were on earlier, with sandwiches, a thermos, and blankets. Porthos asks d’Artagnan questions about his life, his family, his friends. His relationship with Constance.

 

“Shut up,” d’Artagnan mutters, to that one, ducking his head to hide his blush. “She’s not interested in that sort of thing.”

 

“Hn. Okay. What about anyone else, then?”

 

d’Artagnan opens his mouth to reply, but he’s saved from having to do so. The sky goes black, and then flickers with three swathes of colour, then an aeroplane flies low enough to skim the lamp-posts.

 

“Here we go,” Porthos says, grinning. “Sure looks like a Nightflyer so far.”

 

d’Artagnan feels a hum in the ground. There’s something under the surface. It bubbles up from grates and through cracks; thick water. The cars speeding past ignore it.

 

“No one even paused!” d’Artagnan says.

 

“There’s a warning up on the road signs,” Porthos says. “Has been for the past few days. Tells you to just keep driving, unless you’re heavier than whatever they’ve judged safe.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Ah, this is different,” Porthos says, as the water seeps into their clothes. They get up off the ground and d’Artagnan gathers the blankets and things out of the way. Porthos sucks some of the liquid off his fingers. “Eurgh. Not water. Not anythin’, just sommat made up. Tastes like dust.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

 

“Hey, here’s our house! Awesome,” Porthos says.

 

They turn to look at it. It’s huge, a mansion more than a house, lit up. There’s music coming from the windows, and there are shadows of people dancing. There’s a great drive that merges with the road. Some of the cars are hesitating, slowing, but none stop. The front doors swing open and a woman comes out, wearing entirely white. She fixes her gaze on Porthos.

 

“Uh oh,” Porthos mutters. “Better call Constance, this might get ugly.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“She’s seen me, or felt me, or somethin’. Oh yeah, she’s after us. Here she comes. Call Connie, d’Art. Now.”

 

d’Artagnan does as he’s told, watching the woman moving closer. She’s beautiful, her face coalesces out of the darkness as she moves, as if she’s drawing her image from the air around her. Her hairs piled up on top of her head, but some of it’s come loose, cascading over her shoulders.

 

_ Heya, bored on your stakeout? _

 

“Constance! Thank God. Porthos said to ring you, there’s a lady coming at us. She’s pretty slow.”

 

_ Is he talking? _

 

“Porthos? I dunno. Porthos, hey. Can you hear me?”

 

Porthos turns his head in a slow, heavy dip, and stares at d’Artagnan, then turns back to the approaching woman. Their gazes lock, and she comes on faster.

 

“Don’t think so. She’s getting quicker.”

 

_ Keep calm. Put your hand on the back of Porthos’ neck, that’ll help him. He can probably do this just fine on his own, if she’s just a ghost. _

 

“She’s not. We don’t really know what she is. She’s sort of a mix of fragmentary emotion, a shade, a nightflyer, and she seems to be able to do spells. Porthos thinks she’s a dead Mage. “

 

_ Uh oh. Okay, put me on speaker. Does Porthos have his backpack? _

 

“Yes.”

 

_ Find vanilla essence… um… no, make it almond. And whatever tree bark he has in there, it should be in a green case? _

 

d’Artagnan rummages, trying to keep his hand on Porthos’ neck. He finds both things. He balances the phone on the railings.

 

_ Got those? Good. Okay. There should also be some kind of cooking oil, probably sunflower oil? Great. And a bag of salt. We’ll see what Porthos does with her, keep a watch on his eyes. If they flood gold we’re in trouble, and we’ll try a spell. You’ll need to chuck the sunflower oil over him, and then cover some of the bark in the almond and dump it by his feet. I’ll do the words. If that doesn’t work, throw salt over her. Salt is the last resort, it’ll probably hurt Porthos. Got all that? _

 

“Sunflower over him, almond on the bark and that on the floor. Salt last resort. Got it. She’s here. Porthos, don’t reach out!”

 

Porthos reaches over the barrier, hand splayed wide. When d’Artagnan tries to pull his arm back, Porthos won’t budge. The lady in white finally reaches them, and she reaches out like Porthos, and their hands meet, fingers twisting together. She starts to hum, moving in close to Porthos’ body.

 

“She’s singing, we thought that was some kind of siren thing,” d’Artagnan says.

 

_ Don’t worry, Porthos probably has secreted a tangerine about your person somewhere. He came down to the lab earlier and took one. We use them to hold spells, because they’re so pungent. That’ll dampen the effect on you, though it doesn’t work on him. _

 

It seems to be working. Porthos and the woman are forehead to forehead, eyes glued to one another. d’Artagnan grips the back of Porthos’ neck, and hangs on, trying to watch his eyes. They’re definitely going gold, but so is the air around them, the music getting louder, the traffic fading. In fact, the road is fading, giving way to green- grass and forest.

 

_ d’Artagnan? How’s it going? _

 

“No idea. What’s supposed to happen?”

 

_ No clue. How does Porthos seem? _

 

Porthos sways back into d’Artagnan’s hold, suddenly, and his eyes go completely gold. d’Artagnan flings oil at him and drops the bark, and yells to Constance. She starts to speak, but then the air empties, the woman vanishes, and they’re back on the island.

 

“She’s gone,” d’Artagnan says.

 

Porthos sways, then shakes himself, then turns to d’Artagnan. His eyes are still kind of gold.

 

“Oh, yeah, she’s a fragment alright. And angry,” Porthos says. “Thanks, Connie. That could’ve gone worse.”

 

“You got rid of her?” d’Artagnan says.

 

“Nah, she just left. Might’ve given her something to think about, but she’s powerful. Got a loooot of hate there. Funny, felt pretty personal. Like it was me she hates. Don’t think she was a Mage, though. More like, I dunno. More like an empath.”

 

_ You know that doesn’t carry over. _

 

“It does. I know the books say it doesn’t carry over, but trust me, some of it does. I’ll tell you about empaths another day, d’Artagnan. Time to go home, now.”

 

“But-”, d’Artagnan starts. He cuts himself off, though, when Porthos turns to him. Porthos’ face looks haggard and pale, deep shadows under his eyes, face heavy. “Never mind. I’ll drive.”

 

Porthos directs d’Artagnan to Elephant and Castle. Even this late the neighbourhood’s busy, d’Artagnan has to slow right down. When they park Porthos gets out of the car and seemingly forgets d’Artagnan’s existence. d’Artagnan follows him to the flat, through the garden and up the stairs, wanting to make sure he gets in okay. Porthos uses his keys all the way up, but when he staggers into the flat, there’s a light on and someone’s home. d’Artagnan realises that he knows nothing about Porthos’ personal life, that he’s intruding, and that Porthos is unaware that he’s been followed, all in the split second before Athos comes out of the door at the end of the hall, flicking on lights.

 

“Oh, d’Artagnan. Making sure he gets in?” Athos says.

 

He’s got a wine glass in one hand, and he’s in what look like pyjamas. He comes down the hall and helps Porthos untangle himself from his coat.

 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan says, belatedly.

 

“Thanks. Por- Porthos, hang on, don’t-”

 

Porthos walks into the wall, then blinks at Athos in mute accusation. Athos wraps an arm around Porthos’ waist.

 

“Come through, d’Artagnan. You might as well sleep over, too,” Athos says, waving a hand at the door he came out of. “Let me get Porthos horizontal, then I’ll come be host.”

 

d’Artagnan kicks his shoes off and goes through to what turns out to be the livingroom. Athos guides Porthos on down the hall. d’Artagnan hears them talking softly. He looks around, curious. It looks like the kind of place Athos would live, not Porthos, and d’Artagnan thinks that must be a correct assumption. There are floor to ceiling bookcases, art on the walls, but otherwise the space is sparse. There’s a bottle of wine and an empty plate on the coffee table. d’Artagnan sits on the sofa and waits.

 

“Thanks for bringing him back,” Athos says, returning.

 

"Sure. He directed me here, I hope that's...? We didn't interrupt?"

 

"No," Athos says, smiling, reaching all the way to his eyes. His cheeks go pink, too. "He's, uh, he's always welcome here. Um. In a... um... kind of... I... he's... we're... me and him. We're..."

 

d'Artagnan needs more to go on than that. He can perhaps guess what Athos might be getting at, but, a.) he doesn't want to get that wrong, and, b.) he kind of wants Athos to keep on stuttering and attempting to not-say what he wants to say. Because pinks cheeked, bright eyed, flustered Athos is absolutely adorable. d'Artagnan gives him a blank look perfected as a bored seventeen year old. Athos waves a hand, flinging wine at the wall.

 

"Oops. Um, I mean... me and Porthos are... you know. _ You _ know. Wait, do you know? How old are you?" Athos says, looking confused for a second. "Wait. Of course you know. Damn it, you know!"

 

"I have no clue what you're on about," d'Artagnan says blithely, highly entertained. "Shall I get a cloth, though? You spilt your wine."

 

It's just a small splash on the carpet. Athos scrubs the mark with his socked foot and shakes his head, cheeks going from pink to red.

 

"You know," Athos says. "Porthos is my... well no, he's not 'my' anything. I'm his."

 

Athos stops there, and d'Artagnan nearly dies trying not to laugh. Then Porthos looms in the doorway, and d'Artagnan feels bad.

 

"Leave 'im alone, d'Artagnan," Porthos says, lumbering to Athos and dropping an arm around his shoulders. Athos presses his face into Porthos' biceps. "'course he knows what you're on about, Ath, he's bein' a twat."

 

"I am," d'Artagnan says, trying not to laugh, trying really hard not to-

 

Athos mumbles something and goes all soft and gooey, pressing into Porthos, glaring out at d'Artagnan like a little puppy, and d'Artagnan can't help it. He breaks. He laughs so hard he has to bend over his knees. Athos glares harder. Porthos gives him a lopsided grin and pats Athos' head.

 

"Stop petting me," Athos snaps, tugging himself away from Porthos. "You're as bad as him. I should make you clean up the wine for that."

 

"Aw, Athos, it was just so cute! You looked like Puss in Boots, from Shrek, those big adorable eyes," d'Artagnan says.

 

"You're not making a very good case for getting my forgiveness," Athos says, with great dignity. "You took me by surprise. It's one in the morning, I was getting ready for bed."

 

"Waitin up for me," Porthos says, pleased, crinkling at Athos in a big smile. "d'Art, I'll show you the guest room. Ath, can I have sommat for this headache? Not paracetamol. Sommat stronger."

 

"Is it bad?" Athos asks, frowning, touching Porthos' temple.

 

Porthos leans into the touch a moment, then pats Athos' shoulder and gestures d'Artagnan up. He must have said something wordless to Athos, because Athos seems to have his answer- he moves away towards the hall again. d'Artagnan gets up to follow Porthos, yawning widely. The guest room is small, but warm, with a soft bed and nice sheets and a cosy duvet. d'Artagnan strips to his underwear, uncaring of his audience, and curls up under the covers. Porthos comes and sits on the edge of the bed.

 

"Are you mad at me for winding him up?" d'Artagnan asks, yawning again.

 

"Nah. He'll live. No, I just want to warn you that you might have some weird dreams. If your sleep's too disturbed, or you have a dream that... upsets you- don't glare at me, it happens. Come knock on our room, okay? There's something that'll help."

 

"Why can't you just give it to me now?"

 

"It has some side-effects. Makes you fart like a trooper," Porthos says, smiling. "I work in the same tiny office as you."

 

d'Artagnan giggles, then feels like a small child. He feels vulnerable and small and stupid, and it makes him blush. Porthos rubs his shoulder.

 

"Don't worry about it," Porthos says. "Whatever it is that's worrying you."

 

"You're babying me."

 

"A bit. I baby everyone."

 

d'Artagnan can believe that. He settles, and Porthos leaves him to sleep. d'Artagnan dreams about Constance, but it's a good dream, nothing unsettling, nothing upsetting. He sleeps well, and doesn't wake up until Athos bangs on the door at ten o'clock.


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh look at this, JK wasn't completely barmy. _ When someone commits an atrocity their soul fragments. What makes it different from the usual cracks and breaks is that the piece that breaks off is entirely dislocated from the rest. Unlike the so-called 'Snow Angels', these fragments of soul do not need the owner to die before they can manifest, and do not need snow, or any conductor, _ " d'Artagnan reads out.

 

He's got a stack of books at his left elbow, from Marsac. Porthos is on Athos' computer doing something, Athos is out somewhere, possibly the British Library. Aramis is dozing in Porthos' usual spot by the window. Porthos grunts in acknowledgement.

 

"Dark shades," he says, a few minutes later, looking up. "Yeah, heard 'a them. Could've been that. Had a bit too much personality, though. Usually a dark shade is just... destruction."

 

"I give up," d'Artagnan says, frustrated. Porthos has shot down all his ideas. He's also already considered most of them himself. "You're so annoying! You haven't even read these books, how do you know all this stuff?"

 

Porthos looks at d'Artagnan as if he's mad, then points at the wall. There are frames hung there, a bit dusty. d'Artagnan knows that one is Athos' degree, and he assumed the others are similar qualifications, but he hasn't paid much attention. He gets up to have a look.

 

"Oh!" he says. There's a Bachelors of Supernatural and Art History, and a Masters of Supernatural Phenomena, both in Porthos' name. "I didn't know that you had all these."

 

"People forget that Porthos is our real resident academic," Athos says, coming in with coffee and a baguette sandwich. He gives both to Porthos, resting a hand on Porthos' shoulder a moment before going to his own desk. "Aramis is completing a Masters in Research Techniques at the moment, and I write, so we usually get mistaken for the brains of the outfit."

 

"Sorry," d'Artagnan says.

 

"No worries," Porthos says, digging happily into his sandwich. "Mm, bacon."

 

"What's wrong with Aramis?" Athos asks, frowning at the balled up figure still napping, Lorca sleeping on top of him.

 

"Dunno," Porthos says, shrugging. "Came in looking like death. Upset about sommat, probably related to you know who."

 

"Bloody idiot," Athos snaps, sympathy fleeing in the face of whatever 'you know who' means.

 

d'Artagnan goes back to his books, paging through yet another brick. He's been looking for possibilities all day, and he's getting nowhere. Porthos has just spent the morning on the computer, not looking at any books or even going to ask Serge for things.

 

"Ha!" Porthos says, nearly spitting bread across the desk but catching himself and inhaling it instead.

 

d'Artagnan waits while Porthos has a choking fit. Athos throws a bottle of water at Porthos' head, which Porthos doesn't notice. It connects, and Porthos turns betrayed eyes on Athos, but gulps down some water.

 

"You usually catch things," Athos says, shrugging.

 

"You hit me," Porthos says, finally getting his breath back. "Ah, fuck, I was staving off a migraine, Athos."

 

"Oh," Athos says, looking guilty.

 

"I found something, d'Art," Porthos says. "Article in the New York Journal. Your dark shades aren't far off. When a dark shade is destroyed, especially if it's destroyed by the victim of the atrocity and it often is, as it manifests where it's created, there's a concussive effect. That's all documented and widely researched and accepted as fact. This article is about research into phenomena that come about as a direct result of that concussion, and is not any of those things, some of it's ridiculous, but this bit sounds likely."

 

"Who wrote it?" Athos says, sounding amused about something.

 

"Shut up," Porthos says. "Yes, fine, Emile Bonnaire, if you must know. He's a- deep breath. Stop windin' me up."

 

Athos smiles, tipping back in his chair and putting his feet up. d'Artagnan laughs, and Porthos sends him a glare, too.

 

"It makes you all fluffed up," Athos says, imitating Porthos, sticking his chest out and his chin out and pulling his elbows away from his body.

 

"You can piss right off," Porthos grumbles.

 

"What did he find?" d'Artagnan asks, trying to get them back on track. Porthos gives him a lopsided smile.

 

"Right. One of the things that happens when a dark shade is got rid of is that... okay, so charged particles are usually found afterwards and there are cohesive bonds with positive charges," Porthos says, then makes an irritated noise. "How the hell- what does he mean by charged particles? Particles and positive charges. What?"

 

"You know what he means," Athos says.

 

"Yeah, but he's written this all wrong. I will, however, let it go. What it means is that the- the, uh, residue of a dark shade can sorta knit with other phenomena. If the victim's close, research suggests that the shadows and fragments of their soul can get... twisted. Sort of. The dark shade and the shadows or fragments were caused by the same event, and so there's a sort of chemical signature. The residue- that's a bad word, but it gives the idea- also has that signature. They are, uh, attracted. Like magnets."

 

"Okay," d'Artagnan says, slowly. "So whatever phenomena the victim carries with them, can get messed up?"

 

"Distorted. Yeah. Can also get knit together. So, shade, Nightflyer, ghost, all get twisted up with that dark... bugger it, dark charge. Fine. I give in. He wins," Porthos says.

 

"What's wrong with charge?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"It's a technical term," Athos says, lips twitching. "As is particle, but they're categories. There are specific charges and particles. The Jeremy Lewisham charge, for example, which I think is what Bonnaire means by a positive charge."

 

"Named after the guy who discovered it," Porthos says. "It's a sub-set of the Alactritus Charge."

 

"What is a charge?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Emotion makes a vibration, and if the vibration is picked up and looped, it becomes phenomena. Alactritus is caused by... you know that feeling you just got, when you found dark shades and thought you had something? And this morning, when you came in determined to get books and stuff? That. Sort of eagerness and anticipation and enthusiasm. If you died feelin' it, whatever phenomena manifest might carry that charge. We usually feel more than one thing at once, so it might not. Phenomena usually pick up whatever's strongest, but timin' makes a difference too. That's why phenomena are linked so often with emotional states," Porthos says.

"Our house and white lady, then," d'Artagnan says. "She's some kind of twisted thing?"

 

"An amalgamation," Porthos says, with pleased satisfaction. "Yeah. Fascinating, i'n't she? Probably all sorts of stuff mixed up in her. Gotta say, though, the ability to cast spells is kind of terrifying. Phenomena shouldn't be able to do that. She must a lot of that soul caught in her. Must've been something that really hurt her."

 

"Ever seen anything like it?"

 

"Yeah," Porthos says, face darkening. "Rape'll do that. Just shatter a soul up into pieces. That, and witnessing violent death. Also get a lot of real solid phenomena in places like war zones, refugee camps, places like that. Sheer terror sometimes does it, too. A child's terror can actually create a dark shade. Child Protection had me in two months ago. There was this little kid who's father was... a dark shade had star'ed protecting the kid from perceived threats. It was created by a scared, paranoid six year old, so most things were threats."

 

"What do we do?" d'Artagnan asks. "About the white lady."

 

"Appease her," Porthos says, shrugging. "She'll move on if we find a way to appease her. Let's try that, first."

 

"Another midnight trip?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Not tonight, though," Porthos says. "I have to go home and sleep off this migraine."

 

"Aramis can go," Athos says.

 

"If 'e does, go with 'im," Porthos says.

 

"Why?" Athos says. "He-"

 

"You want to send d'Artagnan out with Aramis against sommat that strong? Aramis is useless at spells, and has the Sensitivity of a haywire three year old on crack. You know he's hopeless at control in situations like that."

 

"Alright," Athos says.

 

"God, my head hurts," Porthos mutters, turning back to his desk and gathering his things.

 

"I'll give you a ride home," Athos says.

 

"Nah, Samara's got a half day today, I'll find her," Porthos says. "Need to talk to her, anyway, in case this appeasing isn't viable."   
  


"Text her," Athos says, pushing Porthos back down to sit. "I'll text her, even. Sit. Drink water."

 

Porthos does as he's told. Athos sits on the desk, and Porthos uses his thigh as a pillow, Athos' foot on Porthos' chair. d'Artagnan wants to make cute squealy noises at them, but doesn't think it'd be appreciated, so instead he draws them. Aramis wakes up and stretches, wandering about and looking over d'Artagnan's shoulder. He sniggers, and squeezes d'Artagnan's shoulder, perching on the desk.

 

"That's actually pretty good," Aramis says.

 

"Wha' is?" Porthos asks.

 

"d'Artagnan's picture. Nothing you need to bother about," Aramis says. "Migraine?"

 

"Yeh," Porthos says, softly, sucking in a breath. Athos rests a hand on Porthos' head, not looking up from his phone.

 

"They only do that when one of them's hurting," Aramis says, softly, smiling down at d'Artagnan. "I take it you already know?"

 

"Mm. Porthos accidentally outed them last night, he directed me to Athos' and I made sure he got in safe."

 

"Porthos?" A new voice says, and a woman sweeps in.

 

d'Artagnan stares at her. She's beautiful, with thick, kinky hair around her head like a cloud, but it's not that which makes him stare. She's wearing trainers and jeans and a jacket. She's got a thigh holster, and a massive gun. She carries herself as if she's Queen of all she surveys, and she's got a wonderful voice, commanding and musical.

 

"Oh, there you are. Come on, then, I will take you home," she says.

 

"Samara," Aramis says. "Meet our new recruit, d'Artagnan. d’Art, this is Detective Chief Inspector Samara Alaman"

 

"I'm just here for a few weeks," d'Artagnan says quickly. "I work with Ninon Larroque."

 

"I like Ninon," Samara says, eyes measuring d'Artagnan. She nods to him and then turns back to Porthos. "Are you coming?"

 

"Comin', comin'," Porthos says, getting up all at once. He walks over to Samara, and then walks into her. "Sorry."

 

"You have a migraine, I will forgive you," Samara says. It makes Porthos laugh softly, for some reason. He links arms with her and she sweeps back out again.

 

"Wow," d'Artagnan says, when she's out of earshot.

 

"Yeah, she's something," Aramis says, whistling.

 

"What does she do? She has a gun?"

 

"She... she's a Mage," Aramis says, frowning. "She works with CID and Supernatural Intelligence, and the Ghostbusters. She's pretty quick, she got her degree early and then did another and a masters and a Phd, all before she was twenty five. She basically deals with the things that go crash bang wollop in the night, not just bang. Anything that's particularly dangerous. She's really good at writing spells, and adapting them on the spot."

 

"Awesome," d'Artagnan says.

 

"She's licensed to carry, but she doesn't usually. She must be going out tonight," Athos says. "Are we going out tonight?"

 

"Yes," d'Artagnan says.

 

"What for?" Aramis asks.

 

It happens almost exactly the same as last time, except that Porthos isn't there. Instead there's Athos, silent on d'Artagnan's left, and Aramis chattering away on his right. Athos hogs the coffee, and Aramis hogs the sandwiches. d'Artagnan eats crisps and waits patiently. When it starts raining confetti they get up to watch.

 

The lady in white turns right on them, and moves faster. d'Artagnan opens his mouth, but she's already there, screaming instead of singing, enveloping Athos in bright white. Aramis yells and shoves his hands into the middle, dragging Athos out and flinging him at d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan catches him, and turns back to Aramis. Aramis is palm to palm with the woman, air thrumming gold. d'Artagnan tries to get a look at his eyes, but Aramis has them shut. He's making long keening noises and the veins on his arms are going silver.

 

d'Artagnan throws salt over them both, and the screaming intensifies, then vanishes. Aramis crumples. d'Artagnan drags Aramis' arm over his shoulder, nudges Athos forwards, and walks them back to the car. Athos isn't talking. d'Artagnan wants to take them to the hospital, but his brain just supplies 'Porthos'. It's Aramis' car. He pokes at the satnav, hoping... yes. There. 'Porthos'. d'Artagnan presses the address and sets off.

 

"No hospital," Athos says, voice gravelly.

 

"Alright," d'Artagnan says.

 

Athos doesn't respond to anything d'Artagnan says, he just directs along with the Sat Nav. When they reach their destination, out in Hackney, Athos doesn't help with Aramis, still limp and useless. He goes and unlocks the doors. d'Artagnan follows him up the stairs and into a narrow, dark hallway. Athos toes off his shoes and walks through a door, shutting it behind him. d'Artagnan stands, not sure what to do next, holding Aramis up.

 

Porthos comes out of the door, thankfully. He frowns at them, shuts the front door and points d'Artagnan through into a living-room/kitchen, instructing him to set Aramis on the sofa.

 

"Red box, bathroom," Porthos says. "Only other door off the hall."

 

d'Artagnan finds both the bathroom and the red box without difficulty and hurries to return to Porthos' side. Porthos has Aramis' shoes and coat off, and a blanket around him instead.

 

"C'mere, d'Art. Tell me what his veins look like, on his arms and on his neck," Porthos says.

 

"Uh, they're silver."

 

"Can't see anythin', just sun spots and wiggly lights," Porthos says. "Okay, number twelve in there, should be a bottle. The silver blanket and the hot socks."

 

d'Artagnan opens his mouth to ask about hot socks, but it becomes obvious- it says hot socks on the packet. He passes everything over to Porthos. Porthos forces Aramis to drink the vial, then lays him down and tucks the silver blanket around him, putting the socks on his feet. He drapes another blanket over the top, then lumbers up and out. He returns with a pillow and duvet.

 

"Um, I don't have a spare room. You alright on the floor? I've got a little mattress and a sleeping bag. Won't be hugely comfy."

 

"Will Aramis be okay?"

 

"Should be. I need to sit with him for about an hour, make sure he warms up. He just needs to sleep. Did he touch the thing?"

 

"Is that the technical term?"

 

"My head is killing me, I can't see anything, and you woke me up in the middle of the night."

 

"Right, the thing. Yeah, they both did."

 

"Athos ain't that Sensitive, should be fine. Did you touch it? Tell me no, please."

 

"No."

 

"Are you just-"

 

"No."

 

Porthos nods and leaves again, returning with a thin mattress, a sleeping bag and a pillow. He lays it out on the floor and then sits on the floor, back against the sofa.

 

"Got to monitor him. Sorry," Porthos says. "I'll be quiet."

 

"Can I do anything?"

 

"Nah. Get some sleep, Pup."

 

d'Artagnan lies down. He watches Porthos, for a while. Porthos just sits. Every ten minutes or so he'll check on Aramis, calling his name and touching his neck and doing something else that d'Artagnan can't see. His presence is warm, and comforting, and d'Artagnan soon falls asleep.

 

He wakes to a crash. His heart beat hard, his body jerks him to sit up, and he's spotted the cause of the disturbance before his brain's caught up with even being awake. It's Athos, at the kitchen end of the room, staring down at the floor. It's a shattered mug, d'Artagnan sees in the light from the street lamp outside. Athos just stares at it. Porthos comes through, yawning. He wraps Athos in a hug.

 

"I needed to get up," Athos says, loudly.

 

"'s'fine. You hurt?" Porthos says, softer.

 

"No. I broke your cup."

 

"I see that. Were you makin' thingy?"

 

"Yeah," Athos says, clinging to Porthos. "Yeah."

 

"Alrigh'. I'll do it. Go on, go back to bed, I'll bring you it," Porthos says.

 

Athos goes. d'Artagnan gets up and goes to the kitchen. Porthos is leaning on the side, arm muscles tense, holding his weight, head hanging.

 

"I'll clear up, just tell me where things are," d'Artagnan says.

 

"I can do it," Porthos says. "Dustpan and brush are under the sink, should be some newspaper waiting for recycling down there too."

 

d'Artagnan cleans up as quick as he can, then puts the kettle on and gets out another mug. He makes lemon and honey under Porthos' tired supervision. He considers asking Porthos if he wants or needs anything, or if he's alright. He doesn't, though. Porthos, d'Artagnan realises, is likely someone who'll ask if he needs help.

 

"Thanks," Porthos says, when d'Artagnan presents him with a mug. Porthos squeezes the back of d'Artagnan's neck, pulling their forehead together a moment. "For bringin' them home, and for this. Yeah."

 

"Sure."

 

d'Artagnan goes back to bed, and this time he sleeps till morning. He wakes up to Aramis and Athos chatting. They're in the kitchen, Athos making coffee, Aramis making toast. d'Artagnan stretches, but can't be bothered to get up quite yet.

 

"Oh, morning, Pup," Aramis says, noticing he's awake. "Toast? I'm considering making eggs, too."

 

"Scrambled, please," d'Artagnan says.

 

"We're not due in until twelve," Athos says. "You can take your time."

 

d'Artagnan does. Staying in bed until Aramis finishes making them breakfast, then taking a long shower, closely followed by lying on the sofa and yawning.

 

"Porthos is staying home today," Athos says. "Let's get moving. We should write a report on last night, and talk to Samara about other ways to banish it."

 

“Hang on,” Aramis says. “It went right for you yesterday. We should look into-”

 

“No. We should not,” Athos says. “Samara will tell us how to banish it, or un-knit it, or whatever disintegration theory Porthos and she have decided on. Time to go.”

 

“Athos,” d'Artagnan says. “We could still persuade her to go. Isn't that a preferred outcome? Isn't that what you guys do?”

 

“No, it's not. We get rid of the threat,” Athos snaps. “Are we working, or arguing with me? Because if it's the latter, I have a few things to say.”

 

“We're working,” Aramis says, quickly. In the car, he mutters to d'Artagnan, “You don't want him to have a go at you. He's vicious.”

 

Athos glares, even though he couldn't possibly hear what Aramis said. Samara is waiting in the office for them. There's a white board, with a picture of a 'sheet shade' on it. A wiggly, symbolic ghost thing, anyway.

 

“Good morning, gentlemen. Sit,” Samara says, pointing to the three chairs set up. Athos heads towards the kettle. “Sit, Athos.”

 

“I need coffee for this,” Athos says.

 

Samara goes very still, watching Athos, face blank. Athos changes direction and sits. Aramis and d'Artagnan hurriedly follow suit. Samara smiles.

 

“Good. Well done. This is our manifestation,” she says, pointing to the ghost. “Porthos drew it. One word out of any of you about sheet shades of ghosts, and I will hit you. This is symbolic representation of our lady in white. He did try, poor lamb, but he said he couldn't draw white women on white boards.”

 

“...” Athos starts.

 

He doesn't a single syllable out before Samara holds up her hand for silence, giving him a sharp look. Athos scratches his beard and subsides. He hooks a foot over one knee and pulls out his notebook.

 

“I will show you what it is,” Samara says, uncapping a blue whiteboard marker. “It is a dead empath, so ghost, but without the actual dying.”

 

“Empath ability doesn't go over,” Athos says.

 

“So they say. Fine. But I said this empath isn't dead, so. Just an echo of their power.”

 

“Her, surely?” Aramis says.

 

“Their. Gender is not essential to spirit, especially fractured spirit, and you know this so STOP MAKING STUPID REMARKS!” Samara shouts, carefully controlled anger lashing out then stowed away with a smile. “So. Our empath is powerful, and I suspect a Witch. Hedgewitch.”

 

“Hedgewitch?” d'Artagnan asks, at once raising both hands in apology. “Sorry. I don't know this stuff.”

 

“You can ask questions. They cannot. Put your hand up when you want elucidation and I will get to it. Hedgewitches are those who practise magic before the age of eighteen, but don't pursue it, legally or illegally. They don't become witches or mages or sorcerers, but still know spells. Hedgewitch. Our empath has experienced some form of trauma. Something big, probably changed them a lot. You're familiar- split soul, probably shattered. Dark shade. Empath's 'attacker', whoever caused the trauma, _ is _ dead.”

 

Samara draws a red line. Now the ghost is threefold- black, red and blue. Samara draws the red thicker.

 

“We will come back to dark shades. First, composition, yes? Empath soul shard, magic of a Hegdewitch, dark shade. Next, Porthos calls Nightflyer, but isn't. Only two souls, yes? We know this from Porthos' readings, and from how you two idiots reacted to touching it.”

 

“Hey,” Aramis says. “It touched _ us _ .”

 

“Yes, well, you are still idiots. Not a nightflyer, nightflyer is many fragments. The rest of the phenomena come from these two. Dark shade is powerful. That probably is a mage. So, two magics- hedgewitch, and mage. That's where you get the siren song alongside banshee scream. Banshee is easy, hedgewitch stuff. Fairly harmless, except in an immediate way. Siren is very hard to do.”

 

Samara puts a green and a yellow blob of colour inside the ghost. Outline.

 

“There is more inside. There is anger,” Samara adds a purple blotch. “There is love, according to Porthos, I have no factual analysis to back up 'love'. It doesn't technically exist. He says, though, so,” she adds yellow. “There is also will. The will to hurt. This white lady has not had any interest in anything until you guys bumbled in. Now, at first I think 'oh, it's only Porthos', because these things happen to Porthos. Phenomena like him. Like a magnet. But then she goes for Athos, and Athos she really really wants.”

 

“Yes,” Athos says.

 

“So, will. Specific goal,” Samara says, writing 'aim' in the middle over the colours. “We know composition, we know what she wants, we know what powers they have, how they were created. Should be easy to disconnect elements and banish each. Empath imprint should fade with banishment of dark shade. There. Done. But, one more element.

 

“Dark shade knitting with empath imprint,” Samara says. “But also with emotion imprint. Emotion doesn't live on it's own, needs a conduit, usually. Unless it's big emotion, and for some reason this is not. Probably strongest emotion at the time of trauma was love. Love leaves no phenomena, doesn't create anything. Unless Porthos is right and is always there, but this time he is wrong. I met dark shades too many times. So, second emotion fear, probably, but our little Casper doesn't have fear, so where is fear? Because you felt it, right?”

 

d'Artagnan nods. He's been scared out of his wits both nights. Aramis gives a rueful nod, too.

 

“Okay, okay. I don't have answer to that one. Porthos thinks fear is tangled up in 'nightflyer'. Oh, nightflyer is just spell cast by dark shade magic. Very easy Magi magic, that. You need the basics, so it is Magi and not witch. But it's easy to copy. Porthos' theory is that nightflyer is another emotions we expect to be present at trauma. I don't know, it's not usual. One way in which emotion can become phenomena without a conduit- if dark shade knitted into it.”

 

“What is the emotion, Samara?” Aramis says, with a sigh.

 

“Well, in short- our mish mash spirit is randy,” Samara says, smiling widely. “Very weird. Very unusual. Believe it or not, our white lady's aim is Athos. Is to, um… have sex with him. Which isn't going to be sex because, well, white lady has no body. More like… well, pretty much it will be an explosion.”

 

Samara beams around at them. When they just stare at her, she makes an explosion noise and demonstrates with her hands, nodding.

 

“Great,” Athos says. “Fantastic. So how do we unknit all that and get rid of the thing?”

 

“Could go, put you in a car, lead it out into the countryside and then… boom,” Samara says, then frowns. “It might kill you. Might only maim, though.”

 

“Sa _ ma _ ra,” Athos says.

 

“Alright, alright, I know Porthos likes you in one piece. Fine. I don't know how to unknit it, though. I can dislocate the dark shade from the imprint, but that would leave you with a really horny dark shade after you. Dark shades aren't tied to location the same way fragments are. Empath is strong, keeps dark shade in check. Actually really fascinating, by the way.”

 

“Not to me,” Athos says. “What do we do, then?”

 

“No idea,” Samara says, shrugging, still smiling. “Could always feed it Porthos, see what it makes of him. That sometimes works.”

 

“No we can't,” d'Artagnan says, remembering.

 

“Obviously,” Aramis says. “We're not feeding it Porthos! You just said it kills and maims, you lunatic!”

 

“Probably wouldn't kill or maim Porthos. Things like him, remember?” Samara says, defensively. “It probably wouldn't even hurt him. He'd be up for it.”

 

“Yes, well, probably,” Aramis says, sulkily. “I say we think a bit longer before-”

 

“That's not what I meant,” d'Artagnan says. “I mean, yeah, I don't want Porthos killed or maimed, or eaten, but I meant we actually can't. It wouldn't work.”

 

“Why?” Samara asks.

 

“She- they- the white lady,” d'Artagnan says, thinking _ if I died now my ghost would have an Alactritus charge _ . “She didn't want Porthos. Porthos said it was like she hated him personally, but then she just left. I think, though Porthos said it wasn't. I think he scared her.”

 

“Interesting. He told me the first bit. He said she left because of Constance's spell. There was no spell? She just left?” Samara says.

 

“Yeah,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Nope. They don't 'just leave'. Not possible. Weird. They were interested in him, personal hate and instant detection so obviously interested. But then they let him go. Maybe fear, but unlikely. I will think about that,” Samara says. “No feeding him to it, though. Shame. Okay. I suggest, for now, Athos stay away from Shepherds Bush. Unless you want phenomena sex, which is a real bang not just a euphemism.”

 

d'Artagnan can't work out if Samara drops her articles because of English not being native to her, she has a Spanish accent, or if she is just thinking too fast to bother with all the words. Maybe both. She wanders off, leaving the board with the absurd picture. It has the title 'white lady'. Athos slumps in his chair, Aramis gets up and starts to label the colours, adding a second ring of red, zigzagging it through with black, for the 'horny' bit.

 

“What do we do now?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“Nothing,” Athos says. “It's Samara's case, now. I can't go near it, and none of us are going to be able to get it apart.”

 

“There is a way,” Aramis says. “We could still appease her.”

 

“No,” Athos says, sighing. “Best leave it alone. Let's not poke the horny ghost with a stick, hmm? What else has come across to us?”

 

“Two changeling cases, and the Ghostbusters want our help with a haunted house that, apparently, starts screaming when anyone goes in. Not any of the phenomena, the actual house.”

 

“You do the changelings, the fairies like you best,” Athos says. “You could take the Munchkin, if you like. Tell Ghostbusters it's probably just object possession, and they should try one of Porthos' patches. Remind them not to leave it on more than five minutes, though, please. It'll force whatever's got the house out, but if they leave it stuck on, there is a real possibility that the house will actually come alive.”

 

“Am I the Munchkin?” d'Artagnan asks. “I don't think so, Athos. I can live with Pup and Padawan and even Whelp, but not Munchkin.”

 

“I meant the cat,” Athos says.

 

“He meant you,” Aramis says. “Oh, and Milady wants us on one of CID's cases. The recent Rochefort case.”

 

“No,” Athos says. “We can't help her.”

 

“Athos, you broke up nearly ten years ago. It's time to-”

 

“Say one more word and I will cut your tongue out. It is not about that. Right now, we cannot help her. I'm going home, there's nothing to do here,” Athos snaps.

 

“Say hello to Porthos,” Aramis calls after Athos' retreating back. “Now that was unusual. He doesn't like working with de Winter, but he usually does it with good enough grace. Interesting, as Samara says. Let's give her a consult, first, then I'll introduce you to Changelings.”

 

They go to DI de Winter's office, Aramis tapping the doorframe before barging in and taking a seat. She glares at him, on the phone, and then glares at d'Artagnan, pointing him into the other seat. He sits, but she at once clicks her fingers at him and points to the door. He shuts it quickly and sits again. She wraps up her phone call and then looks them over.

 

“Is this all?” DI de Winter asks, eventually. “The toddler on a sugar high, and the newbie?”

 

“Oh, hey, my nicknames nice for once!” d'Artagnan says, and gets himself a sharp smile.

 

“Porthos is off sick, Athos is off grumpy,” Aramis says, shrugging.

 

“Oh good. He refused to work with me, didn't he?” DI de Winter says, huffing out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Do you know about the case?”

 

“Just from the media,” Aramis says.

 

“I don't. Sorry,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“One dead guy, about fifty curses, a fuckton of spells and potions, and I think he's probably going to rise from the dead at some point. Dead guy is Rochefort, sorcerer but also businessman and well known public figure, known for his philanthropy. Wave enough money around and people probably won't notice you conjuring darkness. He was good. I have there mages working on dismantling everything, but I think he's going to rise up before they finish.”

 

“Rise up?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“Zombie,” Aramis says, grinning.

 

“Zombies don't exist,” de Winter snaps. “Obviously. An animated corpse, at best, a shade possessing a body, at worst.”

 

“Uh oh,” Aramis says. “A dark shade?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That's never going to end well.”

 

“Hence I call you guys, who are supposed to be able to deal with such things.”

 

“Body possession?” Aramis says. “Yeah, I suppose we could. How long do we have?”

 

“Tonight, tomorrow at the latest,” de Winter says. “Any chance of Athos coming on board?”

 

“Something's up,” Aramis says, shrugging. “He might, if you asked him directly and told him it was necessary.”

 

“What have you been dealing with?” de Winter asks.

 

“Just this white lady stuff,” Aramis says. “Porthos has been consulting on a rape case. We dealt with the  fury.”

 

“Oh, let him be,” de Winter says, face softening. “Somethings are too painful. No, let him sulk, it'll do him good.”

 

“I have two changelings that have already been waiting a day. What time is it? One o'clock. Okay. We will deal with the changelings, which will take two hours? Bit more? Then lunch, then we will gather things for tonight. Do we have any idea what he's bound to? That would help.”

 

“Some seventeenth century priest, I think. Theory is the binding killed him. It's classed as murder because you can't do your own binding spell, someone else did it. Anyway, he died by the tomb of this priest. One... Armand Richelieu.”

 

“I'll hit up a few sources, during lunch, see if I can't find anything on either of them,” Aramis says. “Okay, busy day. Meet you here or there, Anne?”

 

“My name is DI de Winter, Aramis. Or Milady, if you must,” she snaps.

 

“Sorry,” Aramis says, rolling his eyes. “It's just weird, Anna! Sorry, sorry. _ Milady _ .”

 

“Meet me there. You have the address in the request. Jesus, you're such a damned arsehole sometimes, d'Herblay, and you don't even notice. Don't say anything else, just get out of my office. Now, d'Herblay!”

 

They leave.


	6. Chapter 6

“The mythology behind Changelings is hard to separate from the actual fact,” Aramis says, sitting in the car. They parked by the river, but they haven’t gone anywhere, Aramis is just sitting. “You need to know a few things first. What we know about Changelings is really very limited. Fairies like child souls. They can create something that is a sort of replication of a soul. They're better at children. What they do with the souls, we don't know. Changelings are people with these fake souls. We need to get them their real ones back, which means negotiation, basically. First for whoever it was that took the damned things, and then to get them back. Fairies like honey, and they like things that hold great meanings. If there's anything that means a lot to you that you keep about your person, leave it in the car.”

 

d'Artagnan takes off the watch his father gave him. He couldn't bear to lose that. Aramis nods.

 

“You need to not say anything. At all. No matter what happens. Fairies like messing around, playing tricks. They can create illusions. You won't know it's an illusion. Even if it's ridiculous. I can't believe Fairies are going to be your first magical creature. Hang onto your hat, this is gonna be wild,” Aramis says, grinning.

 

“You're all mad, aren't you?” d'Artagnan says, a little weakly.

 

“A bit. Remember to keep your mouth shut. Oh, and don't put anything in your mouth. Here, gum. It'll help, trust me,”

 

d'Artagnan bites into the strip and mint floods his tongue. It will, in future, forever be a sense memory linked with what happens next. Aramis stands on the bank of the river, clears his throat, and uses Constance's app to do the spell. The water rises and rises. Aramis doesn't move, so d'Artagnan doesn't either, chewing on his gum, desperately hoping he'll manage this. The water rises and rises, flooding the road, into the lanes and side streets, up the side of the buildings. Up their legs, to their waists, up their chest. d'Artagnan chews harder as the water comes up to his neck, and over his face and head. He gasps in a breath, realises that's stupid, and realises he can still breathe.

 

“Sorry, forgot to warn you,” Aramis says, sounding not at all sorry. “Fairies are primarily water creatures. They like doing this.”

 

“Is it an illusion?”

 

“Uh… sort of. Yeah, illusion. That'll be nice and calming,” Aramis says, not reassuringly at all.

 

Something darts at them through the water and d'Artagnan stumbles backwards, unable to stop himself. He wavers, nearly falls over, then gets his feet. By this time the 'something' has come to a stop before Aramis. It's vaguely humanoid. It's blue, but not like a solid colour, more like water- taking on the shades and shadows of ight and reflecting it back. It has arms. Sort of. They don't seem to be attached, or d'Artagnan can't see how they are. The hands are big, long thin fingers trailing in the water.  There are legs, and a head. The face is not human at all. There are eyes, maybe. Something that blinks.

 

_ Hello Loving, did you come to play with me? _

 

d'Artagnan doesn't know where the sound comes from. The creature has no mouth.

 

“I’m ‘Loving’,” Aramis murmurs to him. “Nope, sorry. I don't even know who you are. I brought you honey.” 

 

Aramis throws a glass jar through the water. The creature unscrews the lid, tipping it to let the honey go into the water. It reaches out, fingers splayed, towards the golden bubbles, and then it… absorbs it. Or something. The honey's gone, anyway, with a horrible sound, like everything being sucked into a vacuum then let go. Maybe.

 

_ More. _

 

“I'm here for souls, not to feed you. I want to talk to Mabh.”

 

_ Human's monkey. _

 

“I am a human, I need a monkey,” Aramis says.

 

The fairy laughs. Or at least d'Artagnan thinks that's what happens. Everything vibrates and he feels a giddy rush of joy come and go, like a tide. The creature vanishes, and the water recedes. It's down to their waists when another creature appears, a dark shadow in the water straightening up. Out of the water it looks more humanoid, it's clear the limbs are attached, at least.

 

_ Loving. What now? I am not your 'stool pigeon'. _

 

The voice is harsher in the air, like leaves cracking and trees splitting in a storm. It hurts d'Artagnan's ears.

 

“I need to find two souls,” Aramis says.

 

_ What do I get? _

 

“My ring. It is a promise ring, to my first love,” Aramis says.

 

_ And from the others? _

 

“They aren't here.”

 

_ I take payment from all. You know that. _

 

“Fine. Here, Path's fountain pen, Sunshine's book of fairy tales,” Aramis says, reaching to pull each out of his bag and tossing them over.

 

_ And this naked, untried animal you brought with you? _

 

“Take what you will,” Aramis says, shrugging. “I don't know him, I can't chose.”

 

Mabh comes over, moving without moving. She's just there, suddenly, her fingers running over d'Artagnan head to toe, wriggling into gaps, getting inside him. He clamps down sharply on his chewing gum when Mabh reaches his face. She takes he jacket. d'Artagnan feels a pang of disappointment and reaches to take it back, and she laughs.

 

_ This is good. I like this. I will find them for you, Loving. For the watch he left behind, I will restore them myself. _

 

The voice trails off, silence a continuation of the sentence, then there's a distinct, hopeful question mark. Aramis turns to d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan shakes his head.

 

_ Fine. _

 

She goes, and the remaining water goes too. Aramis grins.

 

“That went well,” Aramis says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I hope she finds them soon. I do NOT want to be woken up by her, ever again. I hadn't wet my bed since I was four up till that point.”

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

“What was it you gave her?”

 

“Huh? The pen and the book? They were the others’.”

 

“P-”

 

“No names, Padawan. Mabh is still listening.”

 

“She's something.”

 

“Mm. Fairies don't really have gender. Mabh doesn't know what we mean when we gender people and, well, everything else really.”

 

“What do I use as a pronoun?”

 

“They? It doesn't really matter, you can use 'she'. Fairies just use whatever they remember at the time. They don't really speak English exactly.”

 

“I noticed that. Language without words.”

 

“Forms, feelings and patterns,” Aramis says.

 

“What now?”

 

“Now we get food at a pub, and I go wandering about looking for ghosts. You can stay inside and eat. I'm not cruel.”

 

“I'll come.”

 

“I also don't know who I'll find. You really, really, really do not want to meet King Arthur.”

 

“King… King Arthur? No, no, I really very much do.”

 

“You don't. He's not exactly as the legends suggest.”

 

“I can deal with him being a bit mean or ugly or whatever.”

 

“Yeah, but he was sort of not human, and he likes devouring things. Like your nastier side. Or your anger. He was a very effective warrior.”

 

“Right. Pub lunch.”

 

d'Artagnan sits in a cubby near the bar and eats a burger and chips, texts Constance for a bit, then texts Ninon to tell her about King Arthur. Aramis re-appears two hours later, looking a bit bedraggled and bad tempered. d'Artagnan pushes the rest of his hot chocolate to Aramis.

 

“Thanks,” Aramis says, drinking it.

 

“Did you find anything useful?”

 

“Oh yeah, I found Richelieu. Treville knows him, apparently. He was a pretty evil guy. Now he's a pretty lackadaisical ghost. He just likes watching stuff. Uncaring one way or another. He says he thought Rochefort was funny. We've got what we need, though. Tonight'll be fun.”

 

“What about Mabh and the souls?”

 

“Nothing yet. We'll know when Mabh finds them. Fairies don't really have time and space the same way we do, either. So it could potentially take three million years. Mabh is pretty good on time, so it probably won't. Let's go visit the families, collect the children. Bringing them together will make things speed up, one way or another. Fairy souls are rubbish, bring two together and the universe starts trying to put things right. It can get weird, and the fairies notice.”

 

The two children, two little girls with angelic faces and curls, sit in the back of Aramis' clunking car with blank, smiling faces. They're a bit creepy. d'Artagnan tries to ignore them. The air does a vibrating, joyful thing at about four thirty, when they're ten minutes away from the station, drinking coffee and eating drive-through chips. Aramis grins and looks around, then points to a near puddle. They shepherd the children out of the car into the puddle. Long hands come out of the water and skitter up the girls to their necks, then away again, then the children collapse into the puddle.

 

“Get them out. We need the honey from my bag,” Aramis says.

 

d'Artagnan lifts the children out and lays them on the tarmac, then rummages for honey. There are six jars. Aramis drops them into the puddle one by one, shattering the glass. The honey seeps stickily, then vanishes. The girls wake when the last of the honey is gone. They're strangely docile and smiley but when they get back to their parents there are joyful reunions.

 

“That was… easy?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“They like me, for some reason. They really do NOT like Athos, 'Path' is short for 'Psychopath'. We're not allowed to name ourselves. I have a feeling you might be 'Naked', by the way.”

 

“What about Porthos?”

 

“They are wary of Porthos. Like sunshine, you see? Both friend and foe. We paid them well, too, that helps. Mabh liked your coat. I hope it wasn't…?”

 

“I could have left it in the car. No, it's fine. It was something Connie gave me, as congratulations for graduating as a copper. It was a good night, that's all. Important memories. I don't need the coat for that, though. My father gave me the watch, should I have given it up?”

 

“No. It was your choice.”

 

“He's dead. I can't just re-created those memories, or re-live them. They're few and precious.”

 

“That's fine. Mabh likes pen and ink, too, so the fountain pen would be to her liking, and the book.”

 

“Will they mind?”

 

“Nah. They're pretty meaningless, really. Things can gather meaning just from lying around our office. I didn't know she'd ask for something from you, or I'd have suggested trying something you leave around there.”

 

“Never mind. I'll live without my jacket.”

 

They go back to the office, and Aramis persuades d'Artagnan to try napping in the window. d'Artagnan is uncertain, but the thick pad and the sunshine, the warmth that gets trapped there, the blanket Aramis throws over him, all help him drift off and he sleeps soundly for three hours.

 

“He's asleep, and we were going to meet there,” Aramis' voice penetrates d'Artagnan's sleepy smog.

 

“I know both those things, you have told me more than once. I'm telling you we need to go now, and that you are coming with me. Leave him asleep there.”

 

“Milady, what are you up to?”

 

“Now, d'Herblay.”

 

d'Artagnan opens his eyes and sits up, but they're already gone. He looks around, hurt at being left behind, then rings Athos, a sense of foreboding making him cautious. It goes to answer phone three times, so d'Artagnan tries Porthos.

 

“Yeah?” Porthos says. “'mis?”

 

“It's d'Artagnan.”

 

“Oh. Hi. What's up, Rags?”

 

“Rags? Never mind, never mind, tell me later. Aramis just went out with DI de Winter. We were going to meet her there. I was asleep. I woke up in time to overhear her demanding he go with her now and leave me behind. I wanted to make sure I was right to just let them to go-”

 

“Athos! Do you have the address, Pup? Milady just took Aramis off, Ath… I know you told him no but you know Aramis. And you never bothered to say why. Address, d'Artagnan?”

 

d'Artagnan finally unearths the right bit of paper and reads it out.

 

“Good. Meet us there. Outside, a street away. Um, Charles Street runs in, meet at the other end of that. Do NOT go in without us. Understand?”

 

“Yes. Why? What's going on?”

 

“Quite possibly absolutely nothing, but also quite possi- no, Athos, don't be absurd. d'Artagnan I've got to go, got to talk our fearless leader out of being a complete and utter dunce! Don't give me that look, you know it's stupid.”

 

Porthos hangs up. d'Artagnan picks up Aramis' car keys and heads out, taking one of the coats lying around. It must be Porthos' - it's very large over the shoulders. At the top of Charles Street, Porthos is already waiting, standing under a street light. d'Artagnan gets out and joins him, and Porthos sets them walking towards the address.

 

“Where's Athos? How did you get here so fast?”

 

“Jerry,” Porthos says, flashing a quick grin. “Athos isn't coming. Because that would be stupidity. Come on. It could be that this is simply DI de Winter not wanting a newbie along, you know. Dark shades are nasty.”

 

Samara melts out of a shadow and walks at Porthos' side, giving d'Artagnan a nod of acknowledgement. No gun, tonight. A long coat that sweeps the earth behind her, her hair caught up above her head. She looks terrifying.

 

“Back?” Porthos whispers, as they approach the crypt.

 

Samara leads them into the church, instead, and through to the chapel. Then she pulls up a flagstone, with Porthos' help, and two more, revealing a trap door. Porthos yanks it up and Samara drops down into the dark hole.

 

“You next,” Porthos says. “Move to the left when you land, then stand still.”

 

d'Artagnan is more slow and careful than Samara. It's a long drop and he lands badly, but he thinks it's just bruises. He moves to the left, and waits. Porthos lands with a soft grunt, then guides d'Artagnan's hand to his shoulder, and they move off through the dark.

 

It feels like a long journey. d'Artagnan can see nothing and doesn't know how the other two are navigating. He can't see and inch in front of him. It feels like walking into a wall over and over again, without the actual impact. He trusts Porthos, but it's definitely tested. Eventually there's a soft sound of exertion, and a crack of light. A door, d'Artagnan realises. He peers through, into a crypt.

 

“No one is here,” Samara says, opening the door the rest of the way.

 

They shut it behind them. There's a body lying in the middle of the floor, red lines around him, boundary after boundary. Police tape sectioning off the tomb beside the body, and almost the entire crypts. Porthos nods them to a different tomb, and they go and crouch behind it, waiting. For what, d'Artagnan doesn't know. They crouch there for a really long, cold time.

 

Then, the other door, the 'front door', swings open and DI de Winter comes in. She's got several torches, which she sets up to cast light on the middle tomb and the body. Aramis is behind her, grumbling.

 

“...don't see why he couldn't have come.”

 

“He's a newbie. Do you really think he'd have been useful?” DI de Winter says.

 

“Yes, he's got good instincts,” Aramis says.

 

“We're in time. Can you feel that?”

 

“Nope,” Aramis says.

 

“I can,” d'Artagnan whispers, feeling a hopeless despair fill him. Porthos nods, squeezing his shoulder.

 

“Here we go,” DI de Winter says.

 

Aramis empties his bag on the floor in a swift move, laying out the contents and then picking up a sword, of all things. d'Artagnan gasps. Aramis faces the body. There's a sudden 'snap'. Not a sound, a sensation. As if the air is snapping, or reality, or something immaterial. Dark smoke rises out of Rochefort's body, then hovers, between the body and the tomb.

 

“You say the curses are still there?” Aramis shouts.

 

“Yep. Red lines are to mark them, don't cross those!” de Winter yells back.

 

“Would be good if we could skewer it now,” Aramis says.

 

The dark smoke sinks back into the body, and Rochefort stands up. It's strange, and d'Artagnan feels sick. It's like a line between his toes and the top of his head has been tightened until he's bent in two. It hurts. Porthos squeezes his shoulder again.

 

Rochefort walks right up to Aramis and then roars, charging at him. The sword goes through the body, Aramis falls to the concrete flags, and Rochefort steps over him and moves at DI de Winter. She drops a glowing glass orb, which shatters and spreads gold light over Rochefort. It pauses him for a moment, which is enough for de Winter to fling water and oil over Aramis, and shoot a silver bullet into Rochefort.

 

“Why won't he _ die? _ ” She yells.

 

Porthos and Samara get up to help, and Aramis gets off the floor. d'Artagnan gets up, too, but he can only watch. Samara draws a switch of willow and starts chanting. Porthos raises his hands, palms out. Aramis has his sword. De Winter has her gun.

 

Rochefort goes for Aramis, and the sword slices clean through his shoulder. Another bullet from de Winter. A crack across the back from the willow, spells shattering over him, and then Porthos cracks his neck and runs forwards, tackling Rochefort, his hand over Rochefort's face. He yells. Aramis shoves the sword into Rochefort's side, Samara cracks the willow through the air with more spells, and de Winter collapses.

 

Rochefort goes still. Porthos gets up, staggering to Aramis. Samara kneels and holds a hand out, still chanting spells, then breaks the willow in two, dropping both ends onto Rochefort's chest.

 

“He's dead,” Samara says. “You brought one spell. One?”

 

“I have pockets full, most of the ones you cast,” de Winter snaps. “We would have been fine, what are you doing here?”

 

“We're here for the encore,” Porthos says.

 

The crypt goes abruptly dark, and d'Artagnan knows true despair. It dissipates quickly, but he's left sobbing, gasping for breath. The other's look shaken, too.

 

“Just the shade leaving,” de Winter dismisses, voice thin.

 

“That wasn't the encore,” Porthos says, gently. “You know this feeling, Milly. It's powerful.”

 

“Yes,” She says.

 

“Power means phenomena. I'm afraid this one in particular is a bomb waiting to go off,” Porthos says. “Sam?”

 

Samara grips de Winter by both biceps, and presses her to sit, then stands over her. Aramis looks as confused as d'Artagnan is.

 

“You two, stand with me,” Porthos says.

 

They stagger over and stand in a ragged line, Porthos between them firm and strong. They stand with their backs to Samara, to Milady. The air crackles. It starts to rain, water and confetti and ice. d'Artagnan shivers. There are the lights of an oncoming car, and then familiar singing.

 

“Here we go,” Porthos says, calmly. “Milady, I am very sorry for this.”

 

The white lady walks down the steps into the crypt and smiles. DI de Winter gasps.

 

“That's- Porthos, how… that's _ me _ ,” she says, voice high and strained.

 

“Yeah, Athos recognised it, too,” Porthos says.

 

d'Artagnan looks again at the women, but can see little alike between her and DI de Winter. Maybe the nose, but that's it.

 

“Her familiar,” Aramis whisper. “You're a witch, Anna?”

 

“You're a fucking menace,” Porthos snaps. “It's Milady, Aramis, for fuck's sake! You just have to go and make things-”

 

The white lady engulfs Aramis.

 

“-worse,” Porthos says. “Great. Any ideas, Sam?”

 

“We could appease her,” Samara says.

 

“No,” Porthos snaps. “Athos won't do it, and anyway, bringing him in here would just make it worse.”

 

d'Artagnan, without thinking, reaches out, through the angry gold, gripping Aramis by the back of the neck. Porthos gives him a long glare, then nods.

 

“I meant Anna,” Samara says. “de Winter could do it.”

 

“I can't,” DI de Winter says.

 

“Easy as peas and sweetcorn,” Porthos says. “No, we try something else first.”

 

Samara shrugs and pulls out another switch, chanting. Porthos turns to Aramis and the gold, takes a deep breath, and plunges in. d'Artagnan follows, without thinking. Porthos grabs him and wraps his arms around Aramis. It's like being inside honey. d'Artagnan can just feel anger, just see gold. He screams as it eats through him.

 

There's a crash, and black cuts through the gold. Samara is visible, suddenly, stood arms out, willow held like a staff. Her heads up and back, hair loose, eyes rolled back. She's shining. She waves her arm in a slow, powerful movement and the air moves, the gold dissipating. Fire and wind fill the small space, Samara's voice cutting through.

 

Porthos lets go of them and turns around and around, darting one way then the other. He growls in frustration and bumps into d'Artagnan and Aramis, still clinging together. The gold is coalescing again. Porthos darts in the other direction, and someone laughs. The gold suddenly comes together, inside Porthos. Porthos glows, his eyes wide and gold from pupil to the whites. He shudders, then collapses. Samara sweeps the willow through the air again and the gold is slowly drawn from Porthos. Porthos screams and twitches.

 

They're so busy staring at Porthos, that they don't see DI de Winter rise. She's just suddenly stood before them, next to Samara. She looks white as a sheet. She grips Samara's biceps, takes a shaky step forward, and then repeats Samara's sweeping motion. Nothing happens. DI de Winter does it again.

 

“I am Anna de la Fère,” DI de Winter whisper. Then she yells it, over and over, her voice getting stronger and stronger. She sweeps her arm through the air again. The gold leaves Porthos, and Porthos goes still.

 

“Sing,” d'Artagnan says, looking at Milady. “Sing.”

 

She gives him a haunted look, then clears her throat, swallows a few times, and starts to sing. It's wordless, a cry of folk music and classical sounds, weaving through the air in heartbreaking solidity, clear and like nothing d'Artagnan's heard before. It's not a siren song, but there's magic there. The white lady appears, embracing DI de Winter, before vanishing. Milday falls to her knees. The room fills with darkness and despair again, and then disperses.

 

Samara's still on her feet. DI de Winter is kneeling. Porthos still hasn't moved, d'Artagnan isn't sure he's breathing. Aramis is warm and breathing in d'Artagnan's arms, but when d'Artagnan lays him down, he doesn't wake. He looks like he's sleeping. Samara crouches by Porthos, reaching for a pulse. d'Artagnan holds his breath, but Samara sighs in relief and nods. She goes to DI de Winter instead. d'Artagnan checks Aramis, then moves across to Porthos. There's blood on his shirt, seeping from somewhere, and he's unconscious. He is breathing, but it's shallow.

 

Athos walks into the crypt, then, paramedics behind him. To d'Artagnan's surprise he goes to DI de Winter, instead of Porthos. He sends Porthos a longing look, but it's DI de Winter he scoops up. He leaves Porthos and Aramis to the paramedics. d'Artagnan goes with them in the ambulance and sits in the waiting room with a cup of weak, cold coffee. Constance comes to find him there, Ninon on her heels. He gets to his feet and accepts both their hugs, letting himself cry like a child.

 

“It's okay. It's alright,” Constance murmurs.

 

“I'm going to kill them,” Ninon says. “All of them. With a wooden spoon. What were they thinking, taking you out against dark shades and messes like that white lady and who knows what else? Honestly! What a way to-”

 

“What?” d'Artagnan says, pulling away to see what stopped her.

 

The corridor is filling with water. d'Artagnan just has time to think _ oh no _ then they're ungulfed. There are no fairies, though, just a warm sense of wellbeing and joy seeping into his bones, expelling the cold and exhaustion that the dark has left. It recedes with the water, but leaves him feeling better. He looks at Ninon, then at Constance. Ninon looks non-plussed, a little awed. Constance just shakes her head.

 

“What on earth did you give them fairies?” Constance asks.

 

“Just a jacket,” d'Artagnan says. “Why? What was that?”

 

“That, my little friend, was protection,” Ninon says. “A jacket?”

 

“The one… the one I gave you?” Constance asks, tentatively. d'Artagnan shrugs. Ninon whistles.

 

“What?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Nothing,” Constance says, quickly. “They like leather.”

 

“Only very powerful love could be worth this,” Ninon says, grinning.

 

“Oh fuck,” d'Artagnan says. “Sorry. I don't- it doesn't- I respect you as a friend, I'm not just friends in the hope that you'll- I don't believe in the friend zone! I'm not gonna try and make you love me, or anything. I don't think-”

 

The words tumble out of him, and a smile slowly spreads over Constance's face until she's hugging him again, laughing, squeezing the words out and then stopping them, along with his air supply. He gasps for breath in her clutches.

 

“Why didn' you say somethin', you fool?” she whispers. “I thought you were gay!”

 

“What? No! Well, I guess. I'm bi, I think,” d'Artagnan says. “Why?”

 

“You always seemed to fancy blokes, and you always talked about them with me, and you never flirted or, or, anything! How was I meant to know?”

 

“You could have asked,” Ninon says.

 

“Oh shut up. Like you ever asked Athos.”

 

“I did, as it happens. He told me he never did that with anyone, didn't believe in relationships. A week later I walked in on him and Porthos kissing in the library.”

 

“That was the first time,” Athos says, very quietly.

 

They break apart, all three standing in a line to watch him.

 

“Mabh came for Aramis. She took him,” Athos says. “The white lady tried to burn his heart out. Mabh will fix him.”

 

“Burn his heart out?” d'Artagnan whispers.

 

“It's a spell,” Athos says, shrugging. “A spell that An- that Milady knows. She learnt it from me, so I know she knew it.”

 

“Porthos?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“He will heal,” Athos says, then stops talking, closing his eyes. “He'll heal.”

 

“What happened to him?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“It attempted to posses him,” Athos says. “Porthos really, really takes to possession. You saw a bit of it, when Marguerite dropped that bomb, your first day. Then the white lady tried to destroy everything it could posses. And then Samara tried to draw it out, but it is hard to untangle the possessor from the possessed. Especially when it is Porthos.”

 

“Oh,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“He'll heal,” Athos says, stubbornly. “He will.”

 

“I'm sure he will,” Ninon says. “I've never seen anyone as stubborn as your Porthos. What did they tell you?”

 

“He's, um, unconscious,” Athos says. “They don't know what was damaged. Don't know what he'll remember. What he'll be like. If he ever wakes up.”

 

“A coma, then,” Ninon says. “I know a guy who specialises in comas caused by dark shades, Doctor Lemay. He should be able to do something. I'll call him.”

 

“Thanks. I'm going to sit with Porthos. DI de Winter needs someone to stay with her, will you do it, Constance?” Athos asks.

 

“I could,” Ninon says.

 

“No,” Athos says. “You're… she doesn't… no.”

 

“Can I take d'Art?” Constance asks. “He's a bit shook up.”

 

“Yes,” Athos says, smiling. “She liked d'Artagnan. Says he told her to sing.”

 

“We'll go stay with her, then,” Constance says. “You sit with Porthos. Ninon will ring Doctor Lemay and keep an eye on Aramis. Is that everything?”

 

“Samara is with Milady at the moment,” Athos says. “She should go home and rest, but she might not want to go home. Give her my keys, she's welcome at mine or Porthos'.”

 

He tosses Constance the keys, and then they split up.

 

DI de Winter lives in a big house, and has the whole thing. Not a flat, an actual house. In central London. d'Artagnan wonders if she's rich, or if she used magic. He does not ask that question. Constance makes tea, and sends d'Artagnan to sit in the living-room. DI de Winter and Samara are there, curled up on the sofa. Samara looks up when he enters, and nods him to an arm chair. They sit in silence until Constance brings the tea in, giving Samara the keys.

 

“I will go, now,” Samara says.

 

“Alright,” DI de Winter says.

 

Samara kisses DI de Winter's forehead, then leaves. Constance sits on the sofa in her place, and DI de Winter sighs, putting her feet in Constance's lap. Constance rubs the arches. They sit in silence for a while, tiredness pulling at them but no one wanting to sleep.

 

“You must be wondering,” DI de Winter says. d'Artagnan realises it's aimed his way. Her voice is wrecked.

 

“I… well, yes, obviously. I am curious. But my curiosity isn't worth your distress,” d'Artagnan says. “Or hurt. Or anything, really. I can live with it.”

 

“Well said,” she says, twisting to give him a very tiny smile. “I was married to Athos. I loved him, and he loved me. I loved him so, so much. He was… wonderful. It was wonderful. We were both working CID, taking advantage of being Sensitive to skip the boring bits of policing. We're neither of us much good at copper-ing. We liked the thrill and excitement, and loved each other.

 

“Then, something bad happened, and it was all caught up with _ him _ . I just wanted him to hurt, for a long time. It… it destroyed us. It destroyed me. I wasn't the same, not even close, and he loved me anyway and supported me, but still loved the old me. Still wanted me to 'heal', and I just couldn't. What happened is something I don't talk about.”

 

“Alright,” d'Artagnan says. “Thank you for telling me. It makes me easier, to be honest. I was a little thrown by him going to you instead of Porthos.”

 

“He still loves me,” she says. “He probably always will. We were each other's first serious relationship, the first time either of us had really been in love. Personally I think he's better off with Porthos. I think he's a better person, with Porthos to balance him out.”

 

“I think he was great with both of you,” Constance says.

 

“Obviously,” DI de Winter says, smirking. “I wish Sam had stayed.”

 

“Is that… going somewhere?” Constance asks, grinning, eyes alight with the scent of good gossip.

 

“If I tell you, it'll be all over the station in ten minutes flat,” DI de Winter says.

 

“That's a yes! That's a definite yes. Oh my God, that's so awesome. You're both so awesome! It'll be wild,” Constance says, sitting back in satisfaction, beaming. d'Artagnan huffs out a tired laugh, then remembers that his own little love affair has been fully outed, and fully accepted, let's the fond, loving smile spread over his face as he gazes at Constance. She smiles back at him, eyes squinting.

 

“Right,” DI de Winter says, with a groan. “That's it. I'm going to bed, leave you two love birds to it.”

 

She gets up and leaves the room, limping. Constance gives d'Artagnan another smile then bounces up and follows her. DI de Winter grumbles, but doesn't actually tell Constance no. d'Artagnan curls up in the chair, around his tea, and shuts his eyes. He can't stop his thoughts wandering to Aramis, taken off by fairies, and Porthos, lying in a coma in the hospital. He snaps awake, grabbing the person reaching for him before he's even aware. It's Constance, with a blanket. She gives him a sad smile, and finishes covering him.

 

“Ninon called,” she whispers. “Aramis is back, and he's going to be fine. He's resting.”

 

“Any news about Porthos?”

 

“No updates. Ninon says he's the same. Athos is curled up with him, sleeping. You should be, too. Milly has a spare room, come on.”

 

“Are you coming?”

 

“Yeah. Only one spare room, and I am so not sleeping on this sofa ever again. I did it drunk, a few years ago, and walked bent like a question mark for a week after. Is it okay? Me going with you? This isn't a very auspicious or romantic start to a relationship.”

 

“My coat love was strong enough that bloody fairies came and tried to fix me. I think that's pretty romantic.”

 

Constance smiles warmly at him and pulls him up to his feet. He groans, every bit of him aching. She curls around him, in bed, and she's so warm and comforting and he's wanted this for such a long time. He sinks gratefully into her care, trusting her to keep the nightmares at bay, and falls into sleep dizzyingly fast.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

The next week is spent visiting the hospital. Aramis is kept in for another day and night, then let home. He goes on his own, brushing off their concern, but he rings Athos two hours later in tears, so d'Artagnan goes to fetch him. He, Constance, Milady, and Samara when she's not working, are all staying at a giant town house that apparently belongs to Athos. Milady was really uncomfortable about it until Athos caught her looking squirrelly and said, abruptly, that he bought it two years ago with his pay from the police. For some reason that had been enough to calm her.

 

d'Artagnan likes Milady. She's not gentle, or kind, or any of the things he loves about Constance. She's sarcastic and cynical and abrasive. She makes him laugh, though, and they talk about Buffy, who was both of their first crush, and she likes to sit in the living room in the evening writing, which makes her a bit softer. When Samara's there, Milady laughs a lot more. The two women dance in the livingroom, Milady humming. There's also a piano that Samara plays, which Milady sometimes sings along to.

 

Aramis comes to stay at the house, too, and lies on the sofa looking pale and ill for a bit before joining Constance in the kitchen, cooking enough baked goods to starts a business. They take lots of them to the hospital when they go visiting, handing them over to nurses who look bemused. Porthos has a room-mate, another person in a supernatural induced coma. The room-mate's wife loves their arrival, and the goods they bring. Her wife has been in a coma for almost a year, so she's used to it.

 

Athos gets paler and paler as the week passes, and they find him crying and begging Porthos, sometimes. Ninon's Dr. Lemay tells Aramis, quietly, away from Athos, that Porthos is healing and should wake up. He thinks that Porthos is either stubbornly not waking up because he doesn't want to, or he's lost too many pieces of himself- his soul, his mind, whatever it is that got taken from him by the white lady. Lemay can't do much until he wakes.

 

Samara and Milady both try a few spells, but there's no change. Sunday comes and Athos breaks down in front of them all, covering his face with his hands and sobbing so hard he can't speak. When Aramis tries to embrace him, Athos shrugs it off, shaking his head. They just watch him, unable to do anything. Aramis tries some fairy thing that they left in his head, but still nothing.

 

d'Artagnan's sat with Porthos, Monday afternoon. Athos has been lead away by Constance and Lemay in an attempt to get him to rest. He'll at least get a shower. Milady and Samara are at home. Ninon is at work. It's just d'Artagnan, holding Porthos' hand. Which, of course, is when Porthos chooses to come awake. Not twitch, not open his eyes. No. He sits right up in bed, shakes himself off like a dog, and gets to his feet. He crumples to the floor.

 

“Bugger,” Porthos says. “d'Art, did we get her? Did we get rid 'a the white lady? Where is she?”

 

“We got rid of her, yeah,” d'Artagnan says, frantically pressing the call button.

 

“Good. Where're the… tombs… where are we? What happened?” Porthos says, standing up again. He manages to stay up a few seconds before crumpling again. “What's wrong with me?”

 

“You've been asleep for a week,” d'Artagnan whispers.

 

Lemay comes running into the room, Athos on his heels. Athos pushes past the doctor, sees the empty bed, and goes absolutely white, face bloodless. He mouths something, takes a shaking step forward, and sees Porthos on the floor. Awake. Looking up at him. Athos kneels beside him, touches Porthos' cheek.

 

“Porthos,” Athos says.

 

“Hey,” Porthos says. “I hear I played at sleepin' beauty a bit huh?”

 

“Fuck,” Athos says.

 

Lemay comes out of his stupor and gets Porthos back on the bed, demanding they leave so he can examine his patient. Athos nods, but instead throws himself into Porthos' arms, hugging him tightly. Porthos pats his hair, looking very confused. Athos pulls away, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

 

“Really asleep, then,” Porthos says.

 

“Unconscious! In a coma! You twat!” Athos says, punctuating each exclamation with a poke to Porthos' chest.

 

“Ow,” Porthos says, frowning, looking down at himself. “That hurts. Ow. Why do I hurt?”

 

“Right! Out!” Lemay says. “Out, Athos. I will let you both back in when I am done.”

 

They go, both too shocked to talk. They stand in the hallway outside the room until a nurse comes and chivvies them to the waiting room. Constance sits with them, taking Athos' hand.

 

“He'll be alright,” Constance says.

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. “He'll be fine. He's just a bit confused, after sleeping so long. Right? He'll be fine.”

 

“He knew who we were,” d'Artagnan says, thinking of his father and checking things off. “He recognised us. He was aware enough to understand that he'd been unconscious and in relative danger. He recognised that the room wasn't the crypt, understood our words, could speak. He'll be fine, Athos. He's still just fine.”

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, sounding relieved.

 

d'Artagnan feels his eyes prick with tears. He's spent a week in a hospital, and only just realised why it's so familiar, why the smell is sort of like home, why he was so afraid of Porthos waking up being different. It suddenly floods over him, all this stuff he's been ignoring, and he wants his Dad. Wants him so badly it physically hurts.

 

“Oh, love,” Constance says, coming over to give him a cuddle.

 

“Are you alright?” Athos says. “Is he alright? What's the matter?”

 

“His father died recently,” Constance says. “It's a little close to the surface.”

 

“The hospital. He forgot who you were? I'm sorry. Porthos is gonna be fine,” Athos says. “He'll be just fine.”

 

d'Artagnan gulps, trying to stop the tears. He fights for five minutes before finding some equilibrium. He's just sitting up and drying his eyes with Constance's t-shirt when Lemay comes out, smiling widely.

 

“Well, Porthos is going to be fine,” Lemay says. “He's going to be pretty sore for a while, he has what we call hollow bones. Don't worry, they're not actually hollow. It's a side effect of bad spell casting. Don't tell the other woman that.”

 

“Samara,” Athos says. “No.”

 

“It wasn't her spell. It's a side effect of bad spell casting because of- it doesn't matter. This time it wasn't the bad spell casting, just the same effect. Because of what Porthos is, it is likely he'll have migraines for a while.”

 

“He gets them anyway,” Athos says.

 

“Good. It means he'll be better able to deal with them, I mean. He might have a few issues with his memory. He seems to be retaining short term well enough, but there's a possibility some things have been lost. He may just be confused, and it will probably clear up on it's own. I'll want to see him once a week for a bit, when he gets sent home.”

 

“Which will be soon?” Athos asks.

 

“Should be within a few days. Now, you may visit with him for half an hour. Then I must kick you out. We need to move Porthos to a regular ward. Athos, I'd like you to stay around and wait, it is possible he will need reassurance after moving. He might get confused.”

 

“Of course,” Athos says.

 

“Then you will go home and sleep. You know he's alright, you can rest now,” Lemay says.

 

“I'll stay at the hospital,” Constance says. “Get a book and some snacks and make myself at home in the waiting room. Be on site, to give you peace of mind.”

 

“Okay,” Athos says.

 

They go back into the room. Porthos is on his side, blinking tiredly. He reaches for Athos, grasping his hand tightly.

 

“I don't understand,” Porthos whispers, looking up at Athos. Athos sits.

 

“It's okay,” Athos says, smiling. “Doesn't matter.”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Not at all. You're going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. Everyone's okay. Do you understand that?”

 

“No one's hurt. We'll be fine. Everyone's fine,” Porthos says, softly, eyes going heavy.

 

“That's it,” Athos says. “That's what you remember. d'Artagnan and Connie are here, too. Want to say hello?”

 

“No,” Porthos says. “Yes. Here? Both of them? Aramis?”

 

“Resting at home, this afternoon. He's just fine, but he gets tired. The fairies came and fixed him,” Athos says.

 

Constance and d'Artagnan move forward and wave, then back away again.

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “That was nice. They look 'appy.”

 

“Yes. It seems that Mabh wanted d'Art's coat so badly that she came and tried to make d'Art better, as well as Aramis,” Athos says.

 

“Powerful love. Tried?” Porthos says, eyes struggling open again.

 

“He was upset,” Athos says. “No harm done to him. Even Connie's forgiven us for taking him out shade hunting.”

 

“I have not,” Constance calls softly, grinning. “I've just been busy. I'm bidin' my time, Athos de la Fère. You don't get off that easy.”

 

“I'll just make sad eyes at her and sigh,” Athos says. “I'll be fine.”

 

“Milly,” Porthos says, just a breath, almost asleep.

 

“Is alright. She's been to see you a time or two. Yelled at you a bit,” Athos says. “Go to sleep.”

 

“You stayin'?” Porthos asks, waking up a bit again.

 

“Shh. Shhh,” Athos says, stroking Porthos' hair. Porthos goes to sleep. Athos grimaces. “Couldn't lie to him.”

 

After Porthos wakes up, things get a bit chaotic. Once he’s released from hospital he joins them at the townhouse, where they're all still staying. Porthos shuffles around like an old man, napping on the sofa. Athos follows him about with tea and painkillers and medication for the bones thing. Everyone else is back at work. Aramis and d'Artagnan sit around the office, dealing with the paperwork. d'Artagnan is suddenly glad he had so much practice.

 

They go out on a case with Samara, but it's light. Just a poltergeist. Aramis banishes it with an easy spell. Samara nods at him. She takes them out twice more before Friday rolls around, easy things that she observes their reactions over. She comes in on Friday afternoon.

 

“You're both fit for work,” she says, running her hand over Porthos' desk. “As of Monday people will be bringing you cases. Anne asked me to check on you, this week. She has been asking after you, Aramis.”

 

“Don't,” Aramis says, looking weary. “She's chosen, Sam. I'm done.”

 

“Good,” Samara says, giving a decisive nod and leaving.

 

d'Artagnan does not ask. Very, very loudly. He knows, of course. There have been too many hints for him not to know. He wants to _ know _ , though.

 

“I had a fling, with Anne,” Aramis says. “Yes. It's true. I asked her if she'd leave him for me, and she said no. It's not fun or nice anymore.”

 

“I'm sorry,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“She would leave him, but she can't,” Aramis says. “I don't blame her. There's more to it than her simply choosing, I know that. But I have some self respect.”

 

“Why can't she leave him? It's the twenty first century.”

 

“He's a King. They mate for life,” Aramis says. “They're bound.”

 

“What's a King? You said King Arthur was some monster.”

 

“Creature, not monster. 'King' is short for Kingfisher. They live for a really long time. Louis' humanoid. They're all kinds of shapes and sizes. They're hunters, have teeth to tear their prey apart. They have certain powers. Of persuasion, strength. Louis’ the product of inbreeding, so his powers are pretty ineffectual.”

 

“They mate for life, though?”

 

“Yeah. It's something of a cultural thing, but it's also a promise, because they live so much longer. A promise from a Kingfisher is binding, there's magic in it. If it gets broken, there are consequences. Which we will not darken this sunny afternoon with! We've finished the paperwork on the white lady, we've been here since seven and it is now four thirty. Home, I think.”

 

They find Porthos in the kitchen, sat in front of the oven, watching the door. Athos just shakes his head when they gives him questioning looks. He seems amused rather than worried, though.

 

“What are you doing?” d'Artagnan asks Porthos.

 

“Watchin'. We're makin' cakes,” Porthos says. “They take fifteen minutes. I tried to look in through the door and sat down and haven't moved. It's warm.”

 

“Are you not hurting?” Aramis asks.

 

“He's not anything,” Athos says. “He _ was _ hurting. He finally consented to a proper dose of whatever it is Lemay prescribed.”

 

“He's high?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“As a kite,” Athos says.

 

“We made cakes that are pink,” Porthos says, speech slow. “Athos, they're probably cooked.”

 

Athos gets up and crouches, giving Porthos a shove from the thigh and hip. Porthos slides along the floor, giggling. Athos opens the oven and pulls out a tray of cupcakes. There is a hint of red to them.

 

“Food colouring,” Athos says, smiling, putting the tray on the cooling rack.

 

Porthos wobbles up to his feet, then stumbles into the counter. He hisses, leaning there, holding his side where he hit. Athos shakes his head and wraps his arm around Porthos' waist, pulling him away.

 

“It's hot,” Athos says.

 

“Like me,” Porthos says. “I'm hot, too. Right, Ath?”

 

“Terribly terribly sexy,” Athos says solemnly.

 

Aramis laughs, which makes Porthos scowl. Athos leads him away towards the living-room. They can hear Porthos all the way through.

 

“I am sexy. I am, aren't I, Athos? Aramis shouldn't have laughed. I'm a sexy sexy sexiness.  He was wrong to laugh at me. Ooh, blankets. Look, a cat!”

 

Athos comes back into the kitchen, Robert in his arms.

 

“Lorca's turned up,” Athos says, putting the cat down.

 

“I wondered where he'd got to!” Aramis says. “He probably ran off when no one was there for a week. Hey, Mr Whiskers, we didn't forget you.”

 

d'Artagnan had forgotten about the cat. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He goes to poke at the cakes, wondering if Porthos will notice if he eats one.

 

“Help yourself,” Athos says. “He's already forgotten them.”

 

“Where's Marmalade?” Porthos calls plaintively.

 

Athos smiles and goes back to the living-room. Aramis gives the cat an entire tin of tuna fish. d'Artagnan helps himself to two cakes.

 

They have Saturday off, but get called in anyway because there's a teenager on Tower Bridge making it rain so hard the road's flooding. They get called along with Child Services and the Magi because the girl's looking for fairies, according to the patrol officer on scene. Aramis and d'Artagnan wade through ankle-deep water to where CS is sat on the back of their car, with the child between them. Soaking wet she looks about ten, though she's thirteen. Henry Thoureaux (real name Jack Smith, changed at university because 'Thoureaux was a 'majorly cool wiz') is trying to stop it from pelting it down.

 

“Hello,” Aramis says, crouching by the bumper. “What have you done here, hmm?”

 

“I'm sorry,” The girl whispers, holding the blanket tighter around herself and huddling into it like a turtle.

 

“Ignore him,” d'Artagnan says, leaning on his knees so he can see her. “He's just being an idiot. What's up with all this water?”

 

“That's basically what I asked,” Aramis says.

 

“Why don't you tell them about your sister, Naomi? They might be able to help,” The CS officer on the left says, voice gentle.

 

“She went m-missing. I kn-know they took her,” Naomi whispers. “B-because she was a Changeling. We got her soul back from them. We paid. But now they've taken her again.”

 

“How old is she?” Aramis asks.

 

“Eighteen.”

 

Aramis stands and gestures to the CS Officer to talk elsewhere.

 

“Thanks, Naomi,” d'Artagnan says. “We'll see what we can do.”

 

“What about the rain?” Naomi asks.

 

“Thoureaux will, at some point, work it out,” d'Artagnan says, shrugging.

 

He follows Aramis and the CS Officer to the front of the car. They're looking out over the water. Aramis turns and smiles at him.

 

“She's too old for the fairies to want, unless she's done something specific that they like,” Aramis says.

 

“What would that be?” the CS Officer asks.

 

“d'Art, this is Jaimie. He's the guy to go to if you want things from CS,” Aramis says.

 

“I am not,” Jaimie says, then sighs. “Porthos brings me brownies too often for me to say no. Haven't had any in the past two weeks or so, though. I heard he got hurt. My boyfriend wants to make Porthos brownies, but I think he'd burn the kitchen down.”

 

“Luce? Oh yeah, the kitchen would become a crisp,” Aramis says, looking horrified. “He's hopeless. I lived with him when we were new recruits, in the section house. He set fire to my bed trying to make a cup of tea!”

 

d'Artagnan laughs, Jamie gets a besotted grin on his face.

 

“The fairies like it when you're a star crossed lover, or rescue a magical sword from a lake, or something that clicks with an iconic or mythological tradition. It's powerful,” Aramis says.

 

“I don't think Naomi's sister had done anything like that. Honestly, I think she's a run-away. Naomi's home life sounds less than ideal, we're going to have to look into that before we take her back. Some of the things she said. She was pretty angry and upset and was just shouting at us for a while,” Jamie says.

 

“I can't ask the fairies,” Aramis says. “I would have to pay a lot to get them to give me anything right now. In their eyes, every debt they ever owed me or anyone close to me has been repaid twice over. I would have to pay full price. Jesus Christ, Henry! Can you please get this rain to stop!”

 

Henry wanders over, frowning. He's got a bucket of water in one hand and a box of matches in the other.

 

“I don't know why it won't stop. Her spell was simple. I tried to reverse it, but she must have got something wrong, because there is something incredibly weird about this rain.”

 

“What?” d'Artagnan asks. “It's just wet.”

 

“It's falling the wrong way,” Henry says. “It's falling up.”

 

“No it isn't,” d'Artagnan says, pointing to the splashes in the water, which is inching slowly up his leg and into his boots as the level rises.

 

“I know what it looks like. It is falling up, though. Just trust me on this. I have no idea what she's done, so I can't just reverse it. You know, though, it might actually get the fairies, which she wanted. This is very much their kind of 'disturbance in the universe'. Oh, look, here we go again. Watch this.”

 

Henry turns in a quick circle, puts his bucket down, and strikes a match. The matches are wet, the box is sodden, and it's rainy and windy. It shouldn't light. It does, though, and all around the rain catches fire. For a split second they're all engulfed in flame, and then it's gone again, and it's just raining and raining.

 

“What was _ that _ ?” d'Artagnan asks, patting himself to check he's not on fire.

 

“That, my new furry friend, was impossible,” Henry says. d'Artagnan mouths 'furry??' at Aramis, but Aramis just shrugs. “There's some sort of cycling of the elements. Water, obviously. Fire, which you just saw. It needed a spark to make it visible, but it was there already. Earth, I don't know how to show that one up but I think Earth is the reason it's falling up. Earth effects gravity. Then air, which… here we go.”

 

Henry pulls a squirming mouse out of his pocket and drops it in the bucket. It sinks to the bottom and scurries frantically around it's prison.

 

“Usually they swim,” Henry says.

 

The mouse keeps scurrying. Henry scoops it out.

 

“Okay, this rain is weird,” Aramis says. “Have you noticed that the water is really rising now?”

 

d'Artagnan looks down. It's around his waist.

 

“Here they come,” Henry says.

 

They're underwater before anyone else can say anything. There's a bit of confusion as the various units and bodies on the scene panic. Laughter vibrates the bridge, and there's singing, too. It's not sound, it's just the feeling of music, seeping into your bones. Aramis grips d'Artagnan's arm, and d'Artagnan realises he's swaying, trying to escape. He wants to go dance.

 

They come. Not just one or two, but twenty, thirty. Streaming past, running and swimming around them. They whirl around like a tornado, then they dive off the bridge, taking their water with them, and plunge into the river. The rain is gone. It's floating along the surface of the Thames, in a bubble. There's an echo of laughter, and then the bubble sinks beneath the waves. The sun comes out.

 

“They didn't take her,” Aramis says. “They didn't even pause by Naomi. They like human distress, they'd have enjoyed taunting her. She didn't even blip on their radar, though. They don't remember her sister.”

 

“Yeah,” Jamie says, sighing. “Yeah. Which means a run away. Thanks for coming out. I'll talk to her. I wish Porthos was doing emergency foster placements at the moment, he'd be good for her.”

 

“He hasn't for over a year,” Aramis says. “You must have replaced him by now.”

 

“Yes,” Jamie says, shrugging. “We have other people on the roster. I just think Naomi would have done well there for a few nights.”

 

“Are you hinting?” Aramis asks.

 

“No, no! Just commenting. No. I know Porthos is recovering. Tell him hi, and that Luce is making him brownies in thought.”

 

Aramis shakes his head and huffs when Jamie's out of sight. They walk back to the car in silence. d'Artagnan feels like they didn't actually do anything. Like no one did anything. He also still wants to dance, or maybe jump off the bridge. Aramis has a firm grip on him, though, and he does nothing more than strapping himself in.

 

They get home to a yell and an almighty crash, with secondary bangs and then some tinkles. They run down the hall, nearly crashing into Athos coming the other way. They make for the stairs together, and find Porthos lying on his back at the bottom, blinking up at the ceiling.

 

“Porthos!” Athos cries, sliding on his knees to his side. “Did you fall down the stairs? I told you to wait for me!”

 

“You have a guest,” Porthos says.

 

“I have many,” Athos says. “Remember? Everyone and their aunt is staying here. Did you hit your head? Did you forget again? You should lie down.”

 

“I am lying down,” Porthos points out. “No, you have a new guests. Poltergeist. Tripped me, then caught me. It was quite fun, actually.”

 

There's a cackling laugh. d'Artagnan looks around, but can see no source.

 

“Fantastic,” Athos sighs.

 

“Mm. There are quite a few manifestations around here, actually,” Porthos says. “They're hiding. There's at least one ghost. And I think your heating system is possessed.”

 

“I told you, there were no voices coming out of the radiators. You were high,” Athos says.

 

“I heard something,” Porthos says, stubbornly.

 

Athos snorts, and heaves Porthos into a sitting position. Aramis hurries over and they get under an arm each, pushing up to stand. It's a practised movement. d'Artagnan can believe they've needed it a time or two. Porthos spots d'Artagnan and grins, bending forward at the waist and nearly going face first into the carpet.

 

“Don't try to bow, you idiot!” Athos yelps, as they fight to steady themselves. “You're as wobbly as Bambi!”

 

“Bambi frolicked,” Porthos says, balanced once more. He tries to skip a step, and stumbles into Aramis. “Uh… ow.”

 

They move to the sofa in what d'Artagnan imagines to be an inverse frolic, an anti-frolic, the living embodiment of a 'frolic' antonym. They dump him on the sofa and Porthos curls up and goes to sleep. A little, white, blue eyed girl with ringlets appears in the doorway and thumps over on toddler legs, thumb jammed in her mouth. d'Artagnan blinks.

 

“Poltergeist,” Aramis says, at this side.

 

Athos scowls at the child, and she scowls back, then bares her teeth. She doesn't have toddler teeth. She has a mouth full of shark teeth. Or sharp ones, anyway, d'Artagnan's never seen a shark mouth. Athos snorts, but backs off, sitting on the floor by Porthos' feet, back against the sofa, stubbornly ignoring the little girl clambering onto the sofa and covering Porthos with a blanket, crooning to him in wordless imitation of language. When she's satisfied, she rolls over the back of the sofa and vanishes.

 

“That's what a poltergeist looks like?” d'Artagnan asks, staring at the space she just snuffed out of.

 

“They're matter manipulators. They can look like anything, really. Or nothing. Porthos has been watching Shirley Temple all morning, there's some kind of marathon on TV,” Athos says.

 

Aramis snorts, then covers his mouth, then shakes his head and starts to laugh. Athos glares at him, but Aramis points at the doorway and does an impression of a toddler, and starts again.

 

“It is not a hint that Porthos wants babies!” Athos shouts, when Aramis doesn't stop.

 

He jumps up and storms from the room. Aramis just laughs harder. Porthos opens his eyes and yawns, frowning.

 

“Wha's at? M'havin' a baby? Must'a done more t'me than m'bones,” Porthos mumbles, already falling asleep again.

 

Shirley Temple makes another appearance anyway, climbing in the window this time and tutting at Porthos for waking up, redoing the blanket and the crooning. Porthos strokes her hair, twines a ringlet around his finger, then falls asleep. When the poltergeist vanishes, she leaves the ringlet twisted in a ring, around Porthos' finger.

 

“That could be interesting,” Aramis says. “Better not take it off him. Hope that the poltergeist isn't feeling too mischievous. Or enamoured. That was one weird week.”

 

d'Artagnan sits in the arm chair, and decides he needs to have a nap. The world is just too strange now that he can See. He feels like he's done pretty well embracing all the shit. He feels he's perhaps entitled to a freak out at some point. Some later point when he's not so tired.

 

“… we should keep an eye on him, though, don't let him sleep alone,” Aramis is whispering. d'Artagnan realises he fell asleep.

 

“He didn't actually follow them or dance or anything?” Athos says.

 

“No, but he was squirrelly all the way back here. I put the lock on the door, and got Henry to do a spell so only I could undo it. He tried three times to get out. We were doing sixty at one point.”

 

“Watch him carefully, then,” Athos says. “Both of them. Do you think Porthos is married to the damned thing again?”

 

“Probably not. I think this one's quite young. Probably just wants to be friends.”

 

“Milady's going home tonight, with Samara. Constance is coming after work. She was going to take d'Artagnan home, but I think we'll keep him here with us to keep an eye, for now. No one's working tomorrow?”

 

“No.”

 

“I'm back on Monday, so Porthos will be alone in the house. We should make sure that ring isn't anything before then. I might take him back to the flat. At least we know the manifestations, there.”

 

d'Artagnan sinks into sleep again, lulled by them falling into bickering about Jerry.

 

Nothing comes of either d'Artagnan's wish to go dance and swim away to fairy land, or the ring. The curl falls off Porthos' hand the next day and disintegrates.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“I don't even really understand what's wrong with him. I thought he was pretty much okay, but I got home first yesterday, and he was… he was in so much pain, and he was burning up. He was alright again by this morning, but he was in so much pain,” d'Artagnan slumps over his pint, wishing he'd told Constance he wanted to go home, instead of the pub.

 

It's only Wednesday, but it feels like the week from hell. Athos is being more surly and irritable than usual, Chief Inspector Royal has called d'Artagnan into her office for a 'chat' about options going forwards after his eight weeks is up (he's on week five already), and Marsac and Aramis had a fight which ended in Marsac trying to drag Aramis through a bookshelf. Aramis had curled up in the window seat and cried.

 

“I can tell you a bit about it, if you like?” Constance says. “I've talked to Doctor Lemay a fair bit, for Athos.”

 

“Yes please.”

 

“The white lady, and the spell Samara used to try and draw her out, did some damage. There were the lacerations that you saw, that bled a lot. They're healing fine, which is really good news because magical wounds don't always. Internally they did some damage to Porthos' liver and spleen.

 

“Lemay fixed the liver. The spleen he removed. They've developed a quick, safe spell for that, so there shouldn't be much post-op to deal with. Both the liver damage and the spleen removal will leave him with a bit of pain, for about another week.”

 

“Okay, that's all fairly… that makes sense.”

 

“There was a lot of magic coursing through Porthos. That leaves a mark. The hollow bones thing that Lemay told you about. It means that the magic knitted with his bones, and then was un-knitted, which- I don't understand the biology of it, but it leaves Porthos aching and in pain while the bones heal. The final aspect is his head. Porthos was lucky, but he's a Bright, so his mind is basically a bit-”

 

“Wait wait wait. Porthos is a _ Bright _ ? Holy shit. How did I not know that? That means he's… he's… he must be… and he has a Masters, so he's a highly trained Bright? That's rare, right?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Less so, these days, but to an extent, yeah,” Constance says.

 

“Do the others have Ability?”

 

“Athos is an Empath, believe it or not. Aramis is a hedgewitch, and occasionally, when no one's looking, a witch. He's a Joy, too. Neither of them really use it, much. Aramis is entirely untrained and Athos… after Milady, it hasn't really worked right for him.”

 

“I really should pay more attention to the people I work with. I only knew about their respective qualifications because Porthos pointed them out, when I asked how he seemed to know everything.”

 

“There's a lot to take in. I know you avoided all of this, before,” Constance says.

 

“Yeah. So Porthos' head?” d'Artagnan says, getting back on track.

 

“Mm. I think he's having some problems remembering things. Athos seems worried about that, anyway. He always got migraines, he's been getting a lot of headaches and some are migraines. He just needs rest and time,” Constance says, taking his hand in reassurance.

 

“Why couldn't the fairies have fixed him, as well as Aramis?”

 

“They can't. They can't 'fix' Brights. They have as little understanding of the Ability as we do. They also wouldn't even if they could. Porthos scares them. I don't know why. Not just his Ability. He did something, at some point. I think, but this is just a theory, I think that they did something to Aramis or took him or I don't know. Something. They really, really like Aramis. Porthos got him back. That was pretty much all the report said. Porthos got Aramis out of some trouble with the fairies.

 

“Those two can be quite scary when they think the other's in danger. Kiki- you haven't met zir yet- ze tested something on Porthos, and Porthos sort of died. It looked like he had. Aramis wrecked the place. Very, very publicly. With magic. Only a few of us were around and we kept our mouths shut, because the Magi Unit likes Aramis, too. He went all Willow on us.”

 

“Willow? From Buffy?” d'Artagnan says, with a reluctant smile.

 

“Yup,” Constance says, grinning back.

 

“I haven't really seen that side of them.”

 

“Yeah, that was actually really weird, about all this. I mean they were close knit and worked together and Porthos went to the crypt to get Aramis, but there was no extensive bloodshed or laying waste to land or anything that usually marks the Inseparables being in trouble. Samara and I are supposed to be monitoring them, between the two of us. To see if there's anything going on.”

 

“Supposed?”

 

“We've both been busy, and have been a bit… it lapsed.”

 

“Okay. Can we go home?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Yeah, 'course. You're always tired, these days,” Constance says, pushing his hair out of his face.

 

“I know. We haven't had a proper date yet, or really spent much time together, or talked about it,” d'Artagnan says. He leans into her hand as she strokes his cheek, closing his eyes a moment.

 

“I don't mind that. We can take whatever time we want about that. I just mean… you seem tired. I'm worried.”

 

“It's just all catching up to me. I want to have a major freak out, throw things, break things. But I'm so immersed in it all, I can't freak out about it. I didn't ever want to be caught up in all the supernatural stuff. I just wanted it to be far away from me.”

 

“I know. Okay. I'll take you home, we can cuddle. Come to mine? Instead of that great big house filled with ghouls and 'geists and ghosts?” Constance says.

 

“Porthos attracts them.”

 

“They come out of hiding for him.”

 

“Because he's Bright?”

 

“Because he's Porthos, I think.”

 

They go home and sleep. d'Artagnan wakes up to the sound of something going up and down the hall outside. He gets up and opens the door, and finds the Shirley Temple 'geist thumping up and down behind a ghost. D'Artagnan knows she's a ghost, because she's either moon-walking forwards, or sort of floating.

 

“Hi,” d'Artagnan says. “I was sleeping.”

 

The 'geist sticks it's tongue out, a split lizard tongue, and hisses.

 

“Hi. I'm looking for Porthos. The creature was not helpful,” the ghost says. “Usually Porthos lives in a flat and I know where he's sleeping, so I can wake him easily, but he has moved house.”

 

“He's also sick, so no talking to ghosts for him,” d'Artagnan says, yawning. “Can I help? I could get Aramis for you.”

 

“I like Athos.”

 

“Nope. No can do. Me or Aramis.”

 

“You, then.”

 

“In the kitchen. I need tea.”

 

d'Artagnan thinks he's being very calm and reasonable about all this. He puts on his dressing gown and slippers and goes down. He finds Shirley standing on the side-board next to the kettle, rooting through the tea cupboard. She makes d'Artagnan tea with a blueberry tea bag, and a vanilla chai tea bag. It's actually pretty good.

 

“I'm Flea. I gather information for Porthos. I knew 'im pre-mortem, which usually means post-mortem doesn't work, but he's good. We're still friends. I have information.”

 

“Can you tell me?”

 

“I guess. You got rid of the Shepherds Bush mess, and now there's this giant, empty mansion which appears here and there. Pops up, lures people in, makes them sing, then discards them. It's looking for its owner. Your mess, your clean up,” Flea says.

 

d'Artagnan sighs. It never ends, with the Musketeers. He can't wait until his eight weeks are done and he can go back to patrol, and paperwork, and boring assignments. He takes a few notes, then goes back to bed. He tucks the notebook into a draw, in case Porthos gets it into his head to look inside (if it's left lying around that might happen). d'Artagnan isn't sure what the protocol is, but he's not sure Porthos will be pleased that d'Artagnan made an executive decision on Porthos' informant.

 

d'Artagnan sleeps badly, after that. He wakes up fully at three, sweating and shaking. He can't remember what he dreamt. Constance soothes him, stroking his hair, holding him, until he feels safe and warm and can sleep again. She wraps herself around him and he sleeps better, like that, tucking in against her chest, her breast a soft swell against his cheek.

 

He wakes slowly, no alarm, no worry, just Constance. He feels rested. He realises that it's her thigh against his cheek now, and rolls onto his back to look up at her. She's eating eggs on toast, texting someone on her phone, talking to the door.

 

“…so I don't think that'll work,” she's saying, sounding amused.

 

d'Artagnan shifts so he can see the door, and finds Porthos leaning there.

 

“It migh'. Shirl loves makin' stuff. Jerry'd like her. I know it.”

 

“Ghouls and 'geists don't like each other,” Constance says, holding back laughter. “Even if you did get them to make a grudging peace I still don't think they'd sabotage an aeroplane for you.”

 

“Why are you planning acts of terrorism?” d'Artagnan asks, yawning, stretching long and thoroughly.

 

“Athos wants to fly off to Spain,” Porthos grumbles. “It's rainin'. I'm not bein' a terrorist, just pro-active.”

 

“He's not going to Spain, love. He was speaking figuratively,” Constance says. “Want to come snuggle with us?”

 

“No,” Porthos says, face crinkling up, thinking rather obviously. d'Artagnan giggles, and gets a gentle hit from Constance. He stifles his amusement. “He's… at work. At work. A dynamic… it would be… no?”

 

“Alright, love,” Constance says. “I see what you're getting at. Yeah, there is a bit of that. You're also friends.”

 

“I know,” Porthos says, shifting.

 

“Okay,” Constance says. “In that case, can you ask your 'geist not to try and make me breakfast? I don't appreciate it strangling sparrows and trying to boil them whole.”

 

“Shirl's doing her best,” Porthos protests, then makes a face. “Strangling sparrows? We'll chat.”

 

Porthos wanders off, shutting the door behind him. d'Artagnan giggles, and Constance tells him off, then has a fit of giggles herself.

 

“What was he on about?” d'Artagnan asks.

 

“I think he couldn't quite remember your position at work, if he was your superior in any way or anything. It probably would be a bit inappropriate for him to cuddle with you and your partner.”

 

“My partner?”

 

“Yeah. I prefer it to girlfriend. Is that okay?”

 

“Yeah. I like it.”

 

“Good. I sometimes would quite like to kiss you, just randomly. Seein' as we're sort of talkin', can we talk a bit about boundaries?”

 

“Yeah, okay.”

 

“Kissing. In public? At work? In front of the guys? In front of Anne? I socialise with her, sometimes, which means you probably will too at some point. I would prefer to keep things professional at work, no PDAs.”

 

“Done. I agree. In public and in front of the guys is fine. Can we say professional and no PDAs in front of Chief Inspector Royal, at least to begin?”

 

“Yup.”

 

d'Artagnan waits, but Constance has gone back to her breakfast.

 

“Is that all?” he asks.

 

“For the moment. Why, was there something else?”

 

“No. Just- no.”

 

Constance smiles at him, finishes up her food and pulls him into a kiss. They spend most of the morning lazing around, making out and talking idly. They both have a day off, which d'Artagnan feels in great need of. Athos and Aramis are in court for a case from before d'Artagnan was around, which means he'll probably get tomorrow off, too, unless court is much faster than expected.

 

They get up at lunch time and venture down to the kitchen. They stop in the door, staring. Porthos is sitting facing the counter. The 'geist is _ on _ the counter, toddling around with flour.  There's a bowl with batter in it. A cake tin greased.

 

“Okay, pour it in. Careful. You want it to fill the tin, but only to the place I showed you. Not overflowin',” Porthos says.

 

The bowl tips into the cake tin, the 'geist not quite lifting it. She frowns when the batter runs out. Porthos hands her the spatula and shows her how to scrape the bowl out. Then, the cake goes in the oven, the 'geist notices their audience, and vanishes. Porthos turns and grins at them.

 

“You were right, Con, she can learn to cook!” Porthos says. “We're making chocolate fudge cake with fondant icing, then we're gonna make dinner!”

 

“Oh my god,” Constance says. “Will it be safe to eat that?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, looking hurt. “'course.”

 

“It's a poltergeist, Porthos. They regularly kill people for fun.”

 

“Shirl's alright,” Porthos says.

 

“But, cooking?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“It's a great idea, isn't it?” Porthos says.

 

“No, not really,” d'Artagnan says.

 

Porthos' face falls. He looks so miserable, d'Artagnan tries to take it back. Porthos waves him away, though.

 

“You're right. Probably not a good idea. I wanted distracting. I guess my judgement isn't the best at the moment,” Porthos says.

 

“Your judgement's fine,” Constance says, frowning. “Porthos, why did you say that? Other than having a daft idea, I mean. But you do daft things all the time, with great confidence.”

 

“Jus' getting things wrong, aren't I?” Porthos mutters, looking at his hands.

 

“Like what?” d'Artagnan asks, drawing up a chair next to Porthos.

 

Constance starts to quietly make them all sandwiches and hot chocolate, working around them.

 

“Jus' stuff,” Porthos says. “Um, things. Like about Athos. I think I forgot stuff about him. He's probably cross, or upset. I don't want to hurt 'im. Or like tryin' to work out where you fit in at work, I didn't get that right. I know you were both laughin' at me this morning.”

 

“Did someone tell you these things?” d'Artagnan says. “Or are you just making them up? Sure, I was laughing at you, but because I couldn't understand what you were on about, not because of you. I couldn't understand what you were on about before this, either, sometimes.”

 

“I do get things wrong, though. I forget. I'm pretty useless, here, I just bring the creatures out of the woodwork. There's a family of goblins living in the basement, now. That's my fault.”

 

“Again, did someone tell you it was your fault?”

 

Porthos shakes his head. Constance sets food on the table, and Porthos uses the distraction to escape d'Artagnan's questioning. He naps, after lunch. d'Artagnan sits with him, pondering. Porthos' sudden crisis of confidence is out of character. Like the Inseparables not reacting as expected to the white lady. Or maybe not like that. d'Artagnan sighs and gives it up, going to snuggle with Constance, instead.

 

“Can we go out? Out out?” he asks.

 

“Tonight?”

 

“Yeah. Dinner, drinks, cinema?”

 

She smiles, kissing him. He forgets about everyone's weird behaviour. He also forgets about Flea and his notebook, shut up in a drawer. He goes on a date with Constance, and they do go back to hers, this time, instead of the house. They sleep tangled up together, heavy with wine. In the morning they have sex, and d'Artagnan remembers just how bad first time sex can be. He gets all her erogenous zones wrong, she makes him finish much too fast, and nearly knees him in the head when he finally finds something she likes.

 

It's good, though, too, because they laugh a lot and take their time, and spend their shower learning each other's bodies better, though no further orgasms. d'Artagnan gets to work whistling, and spends the day cheerfully filling out paperwork, much to Athos' disgust and Aramis' amusement. Robert the cat is back at the office, now they are, sleeping in Porthos' old spot.

 

Absolutely nothing happens, and d'Artagnan's still cheerful when they get back to the house. He doesn't know how long they're all going to hang around here for, but he's happy with the arrangement. His own flat is miles away, shared with five other people, and yet still lonely. Porthos is outside, on the patio, lying on the flag stones. d'Artagnan assumes he's napping. Athos drops his bag and runs out, kneeling, checking Porthos' pulse and breathing.

 

"He's unconscious!" Athos calls. "Aramis, get out here! What are you doing?"

 

Aramis is still getting out of his boots, but at Athos' worried shout he runs out, too, nearly tripping on his laces, one boot on one already off. d'Artagnan follows.

 

"Porthos," Aramis calls, patting his cheeks. "Porthos, wake up! The fairies have been here, Athos. Something happened. Porthos!"

 

"d'Artagnan, go to the top of the basement steps and open a jar of peanut butter," Athos says. "Quickly! Go! Then come right back out, with the jar."

 

d'Artagnan goes, when Athos sends him a searing glare. He does not stop to ask questions, just rummages through the kitchen for a jar of peanut butter. He slams the last cupboard closed and looks around, not knowing where to check next. A small hand presses a jar into his. When he turns, Shirley's already vanished. d'Artagnan runs to the basement steps, opens the jar, and runs back into the garden.

 

Porthos is still lying there, out cold. Both Aramis and Athos' coats are over him, and his head's in Athos' lap. Aramis has a hand on Porthos' chest, fingers splayed, his eyes closed, and is muttering. There's a faint glow under his fingers.

 

"He's checking Porthos' heart," Athos says, reaching up.

 

d'Artagnan puts the jar in it, assume that's what Athos wants. Athos sets it down next to his knee, and Aramis pulls his hand away, frowning.

 

"Just the faint murmur that comes with hollow bones," Aramis says. "His breathing's clear, too. I don't know why he won't wake."

 

"Maybe his head," Athos says.

 

"I can't check that, I don't know what it's supposed to be doing in there and my magics not strong or practised enough to just find something different. Anna could do it, from what we saw in the crypt."

 

"Milady. It's Milady. She stopped using Anne, because it can be a trigger for her, said a certain way. You should not call her Anna,," Athos says. "Why are you sometimes such a complete twat?"

 

Aramis doesn't reply, nodding instead to the back door. d'Artagnan turns to look, and sees a small creature climbing down the step. It's about two feet high, is brown and crinkled up, and is wearing a child's dress. It tiptoes to the peanut butter jar and sits down to eat it.

 

"I'll buy you the same as that, a jar a day, for as long as I own this house," Athos says. "I will let you live in the basement and all your family and never kick you out. If you fix him."

 

"A word of a de la Fere. No, I think not," the creature says. "His word."

 

The creature points at d'Artagnan. Athos sends d'Artagnan a pleading look. d'Artagnan knows that he shouldn't do it, not when he doesn't understand what it is he's doing, not when Aramis looks so uncomfortable with it. He does it anyway, nodding.

 

"I give my word," he says.

 

The creature nods and gets up again, crouching by Porthos. It touches Porthos' temple, then sticks it's finger into his ear, then into his mouth, then shrugs, and jumps on Porthos' chest.

 

"Hey!" d'Artagnan says.

 

The creature scoops up the jar and scurries away, laughing wildly. Aramis slumps. Porthos sits up, though, coming awake all at once. The coats fall off him and d'Artagnan can see him shivering hard.

 

"What?" Porthos says.

 

"You were unconscious," Athos says. "We need to take you to a hospital."

 

"Did... did a goblin just mess with me head?" Porthos says. "I can't stop thinking about peanut butter."

 

"I asked it to help you. I don't think it did anything though," Athos says.

 

"It did somethin'," Porthos says, shuddering. "I hate goblin healing. Can I have some peanut butter?"

 

"No, I gave it to the goblins," Athos says.

 

Porthos pouts. Aramis scrambles up, promising to buy some, and runs off, laces tangling around his ankles.

 

"Chicken," Athos says.

 

"That would be good, too," Porthos says, nodding.

 

"I meant Aramis. We need to explain to d'Artagnan what it means to give your word to a goblin. We're providing them with peanut butter and not kicking them out," Athos says, helping Porthos to his feet. "You need to tell us what happened, too. 'mis said the fairies paid you a visit."

 

"Oh," Porthos says. "Yeah. Apparently there's some kind of shift in the fabric of things, which means it's now not against their laws to try and get back what I took."

 

"You stole from fairies," d'Artagnan says. He's been reading up, he knows how stupid that is.

 

"Long story," Athos says. "Help me get him inside."

 

d'Artagnan ducks under Porthos' other arm. Porthos groans, leaning heavily into them both, and takes a staggering, uncertain step. It takes a while. Porthos goes one foot at a time, concentrating hard for each step. They put him on the sofa and he curls around himself, moaning in pain. d'Artagnan stays with him while Athos runs around gathering blankets and heating pads and woolly socks. The radiator clicks and gurgles into life, and within ten minutes the room feels like a sauna.

 

"I still think a hospital," Athos says, crouching by Porthos' head, stroking his hair.

 

Porthos is a little out of it, painkillers, the heat, and his ordeal making him a bit dozy. He's humming, pleased under Athos' gentle ministrations.

 

"I'm not goin' back there," Porthos says. "d'Artagnan agrees. He hates hospitals, too."

 

"Don't drag me into your domestic," d'Artagnan says, rubbing Porthos' feet, which are in his lap. Porthos' reservations about cuddling apparently do not extend to foot rubs.

 

"Something in the fabric has shifted, then," Athos says. "Tell us the rest of the story."

 

"Yeah. The white lady, something to do with that. There's still something lingerin’, and between that, the expulsion of two dark shades at once, the unknitting of the rest of it, and Samara's spell work, we shifted something. Then there's Aramis. They fixed his heart, Ath. They healed something that should have killed him, should have been beyond repair even for the greatest healers."

 

"So they are working with a stacked deck. He owes them," Athos says.

 

"Not quite. He doesn't owe them, because they still like him. I owe them. When I went and got him back, I used their laws. I bound myself to him, by their spells, so they couldn't take him again. One of the bylaws of that binding means that anything he owes, I owe. Which is a pretty big debt, apparently."

 

"What did they take?" Athos asks.

 

"By their law, he went willingly, I stole him. I also... I took somethin' else," Porthos says, grimacing. "I didn' tell you. It seemed safer. I still think it's safer you don't know, either of you. That's what they wanted from me. When they couldn't take that, they tried to take my memories of you, Ath. I didn't like that."

 

"I imagine not," Athos says.

 

"I thought maybe I shouldn't let them."

 

"Let them? Aren't fairies one of the most powerful magical communities?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Yeah, but I'm in love with an Empath, one of my closest friends is a Mage who has a lot of power, and my brother's a Healer. With fairy magic everything's about storytelling, mythology, connections. Plus, I'm Bright, so they can't find anyhin'. They t-took somethin' else. From... from a long time ago. I know what it was, because I know 'em post mortem. They took Flea and Charon."

 

"I'm sorry," Athos says.

 

"It's pretty big. I think I passed out, then."

 

"They left with that?" Athos asks.

 

"Hee hee. Wouldn't of, I guess, but I know a bit of old magic from my Mum. I'm no Hedgewitch, but I know some of the old curses. Not your kind of magic."

 

"What happened?"

 

"Not entirely sure, I fainted before I got to see it all. Sunburn, I think. I think it's somethin' like heat spells. 's why I'm so cold."

 

"You have a brother?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"In their lore," Porthos says. "I'm Aramis' brother. That's how I got 'im out, last time. More or less."

 

"More or less. You got pissed off and nearly destroyed wherever it was you were," Athos says.

 

"Not my fault they didn't like feelin' compassion," Porthos says, grinning.

 

d'Artagnan, going over Porthos' story, trying to make sense of it, suddenly remembers the notebook upstairs and Flea's visit. Aramis comes back with a carrier bag full of peanut butter. He sits on the edge of the sofa and spoons it laughingly into Porthos' mouth, feeding him like a baby. Porthos protests, but not much.

 

"Will you make me chicken for dinner, too?" Porthos asks. "With peanut sauce."

 

"I will," Aramis says.

 

Another, smaller goblin comes into the living room and stands beside Aramis until Athos fishes another jar out of the carrier bag and hands it over. He says he'll use anyone else who comes up as a football, though. d'Artagnan slips away to get the notebook and goes to the kitchen, to wait for someone not-Porthos to join him. Athos comes in, eventually, and puts the kettle on.

 

"Well?" Athos says. "What is it you're guilty about?"

 

"How did you know?"

 

"I'm an Empath. I might be broken and useless and not be able to do much, but I still know what people are feeling. Plus, you're not as subtle as you think. Don't worry, Porthos is too wrapped up with his peanut butter to notice, and Aramis is just avoiding you until I tell you about the goblin promise, so only I noticed."

 

d'Artagnan hands over the notebook and tells Athos about Flea's midnight visit. Athos listens, then puts the notebook on the table, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and dials a number. He holds up a hand when d'Artagnan opens his mouth to ask questions.

 

"Samara, it's Athos. The white lady's house is looking for it's owner. I assume it will be able to find Anna- sorry, Milady. If she's done so much as a spell... okay, good. It still might find her... yes, we'll try to get the house, you keep her safe... yes. Bye. Okay. We've got work to do. Next time, try not to forget. I'm not going to do anything this time, because there's been a lot going on, but in future, if Flea appears, remember it's probably important."

 

"Sorry," d'Artagnan says.

 

"No harm done, this time. I'm not going to tell Porthos about Flea, or about what's going on. We've just had a call, okay?"

 

"Okay."

 

They go back through into the livingroom. Aramis is sat cross legged in the middle of the carpet, hands resting on his knees, meditating. Porthos is lying on his side, still, mouth open. There's gold around his lips and in the back of his throat, warmer than the spell-gold, softer.

 

"Hush," Athos says, before d'Artagnan can ask questions.

 

Athos goes to sit by Porthos, stroking his hair, his cheek, running a hand over his shoulder and side. Porthos whimpers. Aramis shifts, opening his eyes, and goes back to the sofa.

 

"I can't do anything," Aramis says, as the gold fades from Porthos, leaving his breathing loud and harsh. "Whatever is hurting is buried too deep. I've warmed him up a bit, and done what I can for the pain from the hollow bones, but that's it. Something else it making him hurt."

 

"The fairies took some memories," Athos says. "Probably his head, his heart. We have to leave him."

 

"What? No, cuddle up with him, it'll help. Just hold him or something," Aramis says.

 

"We've got called into work," Athos says. "It's something very important. We have to leave."

 

"Work can wait," Aramis says, tucking the blankets more firmly around Porthos.

 

"No it can't," Athos says. "What, you think I'd say it if it could wait?"

 

"Don't you care about him?" Aramis snaps.

 

Athos doesn't answer. Aramis looks like he's going to do something violent, but then a young woman walks into the room. She's dressed as a nurse. As a stripper nurse. With very very short skirt and stockings, and a silly hat with a red cross on it. They all stare at her for a bit.

 

"It's the 'geist," Athos says.

 

The nurse does a pleased twirl, skirt flying up to reveal bright pink knickers. She skips over to the sofa and pushes Aramis off, taking his place, patting Porthos' hair. Porthos, still breathless and gasping in pain, lets out a pitiful sound. The poltergeist puts a finger to Porthos' lips, and the room shudders, then gets hotter. The blankets tuck more firmly in around Porthos, and Porthos lifts, entire body floating just over the sofa. His breathing evens a bit.

 

"He'll be fine," Athos says.

 

"A poltergeist!" Aramis yells, "you can't leave him with a fucking 'geist, no matter if it is one who likes him! What does a 'geist know about nursing, about healing? About caring for a human being?"

 

The nurse gnashes her teeth at Aramis, and a blanket wraps itself around him in a cocoon of fury. Aramis wrestles himself out of it and keeps yelling at Athos. Objects from around the room start vibrating and shooting across at Aramis, and then at Athos, too. Porthos puts a stop to the chaos by crying out and whimpering again, eyes opening. Aramis and Athos are kneeling in his sight, side by side, without pause.

 

"Ath?" Porthos whispers.

 

"Right here," Athos says.

 

"'m flyin'?"

 

"Yeah. Shirleys doing it. It helped you hurt less."

 

"Hur's ever'where."

 

"I know. I've given you the highest dose of painkillers I can," Athos says.

 

"'kay. I'll manage then," Porthos says, voice hoarse, eyes shutting again. He reaches for Athos' hand, but Athos ducks out of the way and yanks Aramis when Aramis tries to give his hand, instead. Porthos forces his eyes open again. "Hmm?"

 

"Work," Athos says.

 

"Oh," Porthos says, shutting his eyes tight.

 

A few tears leak over his cheeks and Athos growls, hauling Aramis up and away. A man in a dark funeral suit walks in then, and d'Artagnan is pretty sure this is the most chaotic he's ever felt. So much for a quiet easy day. The man in the funeral suit has a stethoscope around his neck.

 

"I'm Doctor Chudry," The man says, in a thick Indian accent. "I will care for the gentleman, with my fine assistant here."

 

He gestures to the 'geist, who bounces on the sofa clapping her hands together. Porthos turns his head away, turns his whole body to face the back of the sofa with a cry and shudder of pain. To hide the fact that he's still crying, d'Artagnan realises. The nurse pats his shoulder, and then the room shudders, getting still hotter, then shudders to cool back a bit.

 

"We will make him very comfortable," The doctor says, putting the stethoscope in his ears and to Porthos' back. "He needs to be comforted, my dear. He's warm enough."

 

The poltergeist strokes Porthos' hair, imitating the way Athos aways cards through the curls, then shudders and vanishes. There's a sucking feeling, and then the nurse is replaced by a tall, beautiful women, with dark skin and warm eyes. Athos lets go of Aramis and yanks the woman away.

 

"Do not let Porthos see you do that," Athos hisses. "Do not ever, ever let him see this. I know it's what he associates most with comfort, but it won't work. It will upset him. She’s his mother, and she died."

 

The air shudders again, and Athos is face to face with himself, a titter of laughter on one of his mouths. 

 

"Stop it. Here, try this," Athos says, shutting his eyes.

 

There's another moment of atomic confusion, and then a woman who looks like a grown up Shirley Temple stands there, only she's got dark skin, and her ringlets are kinked curls. She's rounded and soft, and she smiles gently. She moves back to the sofa and shimmers, getting under Porthos' head. She starts to sing. The Doctor, d'Artagnan thinks he must be a ghost or the others would surely have questioned it, nods approval.

 

Athos grips Aramis' arm and marches him out. d'Artagnan follows. In the hall there are four goblins, who look at Athos with insolent irritation.

 

"You asked us to heal him," one says. "We got a promise. We will do as you asked."

 

"I thought you already had," Athos says. The goblin shrugs. Athos sighs.

 

"Fine, go in. Why not? A ghost, a poltergeist and some goblins. Between them they must be able to work out how to keep Porthos safe and happy," Athos says.

 

Aramis remains silent out to the car, and all the way to the office. He takes notes when Athos fills him in, though. His anger burns the air around them, and d'Artagnan catches Athos wincing a time or two when Aramis sends him particularly vicious glares.  

 

They work silently for a while, researching, but eventually Athos snaps. He gets slowly to his feet and glowers until Aramis and d'Artagnan both look up from the books and reports they're looking at. d'Artagnan places a bookmark and braces himself. He's never really been on the receiving end of Athos' anger, and he's obviously angry.

 

"Do you really think," Athos says, very softly and clearly, "that I would be here if I could possibly get out of it? Porthos is my partner, and I have spent weeks watching him in pain. I have spent sleepless nights while he cries because he just hurts so much and can't get any rest. I have spent every waking moment with him, or worrying about him. I don't care, I love him, I am happy to do this. I want to. He has done the same for me."

 

"Sorry," Aramis says. "But you left him alone."

 

"Actually I did not. I left him with a 'geist who has helped him feed himself, has helped relieve his pain, has stood guard at our door on nights he can't stand to be disturbed. I left him with goblins who helped him. I left him with a ghost who has sat up with us and given me advice and helped us deal with this. I left him with his friends."

 

"Don't give me that bull," Aramis starts, but Athos holds up a hand.

 

"I'm not discussing this, Aramis. That is who I left him with. Besides which, I left him because his friend is in trouble. He calls Milady Milly, you know. He's the only one out of us who kept in touch with her. He cares a lot about her. Do you think he'd forgive me for leaving her in danger? Now, I am tired, I am grumpy, and I am worried. So let's get this done so we can go home."

 

"Fine," Aramis says.

 

"And Aramis? Next time you question my decisions, I will take you off this team," Athos says. "I have earned your respect, and you will give it to me."

 

"You can't do that," Aramis says.

 

"I can and I will. Next time you open your mouth, it will be to tell me where we can find this house or how we can get rid of the damned thing. I mean it," Athos says.

 

He sits again. d'Artagnan is left gaping. He excuses himself to go to the bathroom and goes to the stairwell, hoping it's private enough, and calls Constance.

 

"Are you at work?" he asks, when she answers.

 

"I am, as it happens. Are you ringing to suggest that, as you are not, you might bring me food?" Constance says.

 

"No. I'm coming to see you. I need to talk, in private."

 

d'Artagnan doesn't wait for an answer, he texts Athos to ask for coffee orders, and goes to the Magi Unit. Not many people are there, there's nothing weird going on. Just Connie sitting in her corner, drawing birds in gold and silver and spelling them alive. She points d'Artagnan to a seat.

 

"I'm going to keep doing this, it's what we're talking about," Constance says, smiling at him. "No one can hear. It's easy, so I'm paying attention to you. What's up?"

 

"Athos just yelled, threatened to take Aramis off the team, and shared personal stuff at the office. Because Aramis was so mad at Athos about leaving Porthos alone at home. Something's off, isn't it?"

 

"Mm. And it's not the cheese. Damn it. There is definitely something up with those three. What does Porthos say about the friction?"

 

"He got fucked over by fairies today. Apparently the white lady's house is doing something to the fabric of something."

 

"Okay. Um... yeah, that's possible. Interesting, because it means there's something more that we didn't catch about all that. Or you guys didn't catch. Talk me through it?"

 

"Dark shade, created by a mage who did something horrible to DI de Winter. An imprint of her Empath ability. Knitted up with hornine- oh God. She was raped," d'Artagnan says.

 

"Lovely, this is neither the time, the place, nor your business," Constance says gently, setting two birds singing.

 

"Sorry. I didn't make the connection. We appeased the imprint, banished the shade. There was something about fear, which should have been there but wasn't?"

 

"That could be helpful. Is the house somewhere specific? To DI de Winter or the white lady, or the Shade?"

 

"We didn't look into that."

 

"Athos should have thought of it. Definitely something going on with them. Okay. I will contact Samara and DI de Winter, and we will work on the buy-one-get-two-frees."

 

d'Artagnan hurries back to the office, collecting a black coffee and an iced tea on his way up. He bursts into the office, grinning, giving the drinks out and babbling about running into Connie. He figures it's close enough to the truth to not arouse suspicion. He's not the best at lying.

 

"She suggested looking into possible ties between the house and the dark shade or DI de Winter. Or both," d'Artagnan says. "We never did ID that mage. DCI Alaman suggested the mage was dead, that could be a good-"

 

"No," Athos says. "The mage is a dead end. I checked."

 

"Did you find out who it was? because-" d'Artagnan starts.

 

"Did you not hear what I said?" Athos snaps. "Drop it."

 

"But," d'Artagnan presses on.

 

"It was Thomas. The dead mage is Thomas de la Fere. He was my brother. He had no connection to a house like that, and neither did Milady," Athos growls.

 

"Oh!" Aramis says, brightening, scrabbling through paper and books on his desk. "No, Athos, you're wrong. It _ is _ to do with Thomas. I didn't really think anything except 'huh, quinkydink'. Look, the house keeps turning up on the de la Fere estate. Hang on... yes, a quick Google and... look, this is the house that used to be built there."

 

Aramis turns his laptop, and there's the house. Athos goes pale, and sits down, missing his chair. d'Artagnan jerks forwards, but Athos glares.

 

"There's the element we've been missing," Aramis says, softly, eyes glued to the screen. "Something must have happened there, a long time ago, that chimes with what happened there between Thomas and your missus."

 

"Nothing happened between them," Athos whispers, harsh. "It happened to her."

 

"Yes, well," Aramis says, clearing his throat. "Historical echoes. That'll do something, right? Resonance, threads. It's not just fairies who like stories. Things repeated dig grooves into the world, and there's power in that."

 

"So the house is, what, on a loop?" Athos asks, looking interested, getting up off the floor and sitting in his chair instead. "Could really use Porthos on this. He wrote his undergrad dissertation on powerful spaces due to historic echoes."

"The house must have been caught up in the echo, a loop, like you say, to begin with," Aramis says. "But the white lady inhabited it, she must have left something there, too. It's sentient."

 

"No it's not," d'Artagnan says, then flushes when they both look at him. "I mean, what do I know? But it seems to be instinctive. Like a computer program. If it could think, it'd be able to find DI de Winter, surely?"

 

"That's a very good point, young britches," Aramis says, grinning sharply. "Let's get a map. We're going to track every movement this house has made and find a pattern. If it's not thinking, it must be instinctive  like you say, and therefore there is a pattern."

 

It takes them four hours, by which point d'Artagnan's eyes feel like they're going to bleed. What Aramis meant by 'we' was 'you'. d'Artagnan has put a mark at every point of manifestation. Athos, Aramis and he have stared at it, and finally identified a pattern.

 

"Why can the house move, now?" d'Artagnan says. "I thought the whole thing was stuck in Shepherds Bush? But the white lady came to us, and now the house is going everywhere."

 

"The white lady could move because of Milady," Athos says. "The repetition of the creation of a dark shade with her present was enough to uproot it. Power shifts things, changes the rules a little bit. The house can move because it's an entirely different phenomenon now. Who knows what."

 

They head out, map folded up. They're going to Notting Hill, where they think the house is next going to pop into being. d'Artagnan's not entirely sure what they're doing when they get there, but while he was plotting out the positions of manifestation on the map, Athos and Aramis were muttering over spells with Constance on loud speaker.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

"I need to swing by and check on Porthos," Athos says, in the car.

 

Aramis gives him a grim look, but heads for the house instead of for Notting Hill. Athos and Aramis both hurry through the house, seemingly silently fighting to prove each is the more caring. d'Artagnan follows them, feeling a knot of worry about it all. Porthos is still in the living room, but he looks better. He's sort of sat up, slumped against a huge pile of cushions.

 

"Hey," he says, when they burst in, smiling. He's still hoarse. "What are you doin' back? Did you get done?"

 

"Just popping by to check on you," Aramis says. "Make sure you're okay. Where are your medical team?"

 

"Goblins are downstairs eating peanut butter, Ali is out talking to the- oh, we have a bit of a problem in the attic, with a bad tempered dust sprite. I, um, maybe have something to do with that. I was playing the radio in our room, and... well, some of the stuff up in the attic is, uh... sort of a little bit... there are some very angry shop mannequins up there, basically. They're trying to break their way out of the roof to freedom. One of them was small enough to get out the window up there, and sailed past the window. That's how we knew."

 

Athos laughs. It's a restrained sound, but it's joyful, and he goes to sit by Porthos, holding his arm. d'Artagnan stares. He's never seen Athos laugh, and he's rarely physically affectionate for no reason, even with Porthos, even off hours. Porthos turns his head to smile at him, and Athos presses their mouths together.

 

"Oh," Porthos says, grinning. "Hullo. You think it's amusin', huh? Next door came and knocked on the door to make a complaint. I couldn't get up, so Shirl went. I think she might have done something, because the neighbour hurried away. Shirl went to get the doll back."

 

"I was just imagining a naked, headless doll sailing past you unexpectedly," Athos says.

 

He kisses Porthos again, deepening it. d'Artagnan clears his throat. Aramis just goes and wriggles between them. Porthos gives Aramis a baffled look.

 

"I can try and do the thing for your pain, if you like," Aramis says.

 

"No thanks," Porthos says.

 

Aramis scowls. At Athos. It dawns on d'Artagnan that they're fighting over Porthos.

 

"I'm going to go get a drink," d'Artagnan says.

 

"Ooh, can I have some tea?" Porthos says, turning to smile at d'Artagnan. "With peanut butter in it? Some of that blueberry Chai that Shirl makes."

 

"It's blueberry and Chai," d'Artagnan says. "As in, two separate tea bags."

 

"Cool," Porthos says.

 

d'Artagnan nods and escapes to the kitchen to text Constance. He puts the kettle on too, for Porthos' tea, and gets himself a glass of water.

 

_ I'd suggest it was something to do with the shift in the fairies, they're jealous and possessive like that, but this is from before that stuff. Samara says is P doing anything? _

 

_ Far as I can tell he's still normal, but he's drugged out of his skull, and he wants peanut butter in fruity chai tea, so 'normal' is relative x _

 

_ peanut butter? Ew. Samara says he puts peanuts in Coke, but I don't think it's pertinent. What about relations with them previous to the white lady stuff? _

 

_ Only thing I can think is when we first went on a midnight search for wh ldy neither of the others came. Dunno if that's nrm. peanuts smth to do with goblin healing _

 

_ pretty normal for suspected nightflyer etc. S point out Ath and Ar are both emotive abilities. _

 

_ Thght bright was too? _

 

_ Not primarily or solely. Also, P is highly trained. Other two a bit haywire. _

 

_ Ar healer, too? _

 

_ yes. poss not pertinent, will look into it. Thanks x _

 

d'Artagnan finishes the tea prep and takes the peanut butter through separately, because it's weird and he's not sure about it. Porthos spoons a good amount into the tea, though, swirling it around before sucking the spoon. Aramis and Athos are having a heated, hushed discussion in the corner.

 

"They're cross," Porthos says, looking over in that direction. He sounds unhappy.

 

"Yeah, the work thing I think," d'Artagnan lies. His phone dings, helping him not give the lie away.

 

_ What idiot made a goblin promise, btw? _

 

_ me _

 

_ I am talking to the ducking 3-4-1's abt ducking consent! _

 

d'Artagnan pockets his phone. Porthos makes an unhappy noise, and tries to get up. He makes it to his feet and a couple of steps towards the other two before his legs tremble. d'Artagnan supports his weight quickly, helping him back to the sofa.

 

"Athos," Porthos says, shoving d'Artagnan. "Athos. Get him."

 

d'Artagnan goes, and arrives by Athos' side in time to see Athos' eyes roll back into his head. Athos collapses.

 

"Shit," Aramis says.

 

"What did you do?" d'Artagnan asks, kneeling beside Athos.

 

"Athos doesn't like fear," Porthos says. "It's not Aramis' fault. What scared you that bad, 'mis?"

 

"You're not supposed to be an Empath," Aramis snarls, turning on Porthos.

 

"Yeah, I'm not, but I know you both," Porthos says, eyes on Athos. "Give him a minute, he should come around. Make sure he stays down or he'll go out again."

 

Athos stirs with a moan. d'Artagnan presses him down, keeping him lying down when Athos tries to sit up. Athos gives in, relaxing, and opens his eyes to glare at d'Artagnan.

 

"Porthos' orders," d'Artagnan says, cheerfully dropping him in it to get out of trouble.

 

"You can let 'im up now," Porthos says.

 

d'Artagnan lets go. Athos takes his time sitting up, scooting backwards until he hits the sofa, then just sitting there, legs out in front of him. He looks like an abandoned doll. Porthos slides off the sofa to sit beside him. Athos slumps into Porthos' side with a sigh. Aramis is breathing tight and angry.

 

"C'mere, 'mis," Porthos says, holding out his arm. Aramis shakes his head, though.

 

"I'll wait in the car," Aramis says.

 

d'Artagnan's phone pings again.

 

_ May have smth. How's house hunting? _

 

_ Not. We're at home having drama. _

 

  1. _Need us to do it? Samara thinks it'll be fun._



 

d'Artagnan looks at Athos, pale and shaky. At Porthos, exhausted and shivering. Thinks of Aramis sitting in the car.

 

_ Yes. Don't tell I agreed. Can you send SP Royal to tell them or smth? And can you thnk of a way to get them to go home, from thsi house? _

 

_ Good idea. Tell Athos I'm worried about the attic manikins. P txtd me abt them. _

 

"Um, guys? Connie says she's worried about the mannequins," d'Artagnan says. Checking another ping _ Tell them they missed a call frm me. I'll fix it. " _ She says check your phones more, too."

 

Porthos pulls his out and makes a face.

 

"I didn' hear it," he says, then sighs. "Ath? Did you hear?"

 

"Your phone? No. We should go to the flat. I don't have the energy to- that's mine, hang on," Athos says, digging his ringing phone out of his pocket. "Athos... yes, ma'am... no... but we were... we did the work, ma'am, with all due... yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you for letting me know. Well, we've been taken off house destroying duty."

 

"What?" d'Artagnan says, doing his best to act disappointed. Athos raises an eyebrow at him. "I'm tired. I want to go home. I can't help being pleased."

 

"It'll be all the way home, whelp," Athos says. "Come on, Porthos, let's get you on your feet. Can you walk to the car?"

 

"Probably, with a lot of help," Porthos says. "Ath, I want to stay here. I like it."

 

"I know, love, but Connie says it's not safe. It's probably about time to go home, anyway."

 

"I should say bye."

 

Doctor Chudry comes in, then, as if summoned. His white coat is in tatters, his hair's on end, and he's grinning. His stethoscope is wrapped around his hand, and there's fluffy stuffing attached to the round end. It's obviously been used as a weapon.

 

"I won," the Doctor says.

 

"There you go," Porthos says.

 

"If Constance is worried, we're leaving. We don't know why she's worried," Athos says.

 

"Let's ask her," Porthos says.

 

He tries to ring, but can't get through. He sighs, but gives in, eventually. He talks to the doctor quietly for a while, then says he's ready. With Athos under one arm and d'Artagnan under the other, they make it to the hallway. Then Porthos stops, hanging between them, sobbing for breath. Aramis comes in, and glares at Athos hard enough to make Athos flinch.

 

"What on earth do you think you are doing?" Aramis says.

 

"We're leaving," Athos says. "Connie's worried about the dolls."

 

Aramis glares for a bit, then shrugs and comes to spread his hand over Porthos' cheek, shutting his eyes, rocking gently. Gold perfuses Porthos' skin, then fades.

 

"Better?" Aramis asks.

 

"Yeah," Porthos says, getting his legs under him. "Thanks."

 

They make it to the car. Athos says to go to his, as he has a lift. It's just as hard to get Porthos into the flat. Aramis does the gold thing twice, then does something that's orange, instead, turning Porthos' skin the colour of an Oompa Loompa.

 

"Energy," Porthos tells d'Artagnan. "Whoo! What a rush. Shall we take the stairs?"

 

"Too late," Athos says, getting them into the lift.

 

Porthos looks disappointed. He's nearly out cold by the time they make it to the bedroom, though. Aramis sits on the edge of the bed and sends pulses of blue through him until he's snoring loudly.

 

"I don't know why this is so much easier than usual," Aramis whispers. "I can't usually do this without sneaking a bit of magic in, especially with Porthos. I wonder if it's the fairy thing."

 

"Probably not," Athos says. "Maybe you're just finally learning some control."

 

"You're really charming today, aren't you?" Aramis snaps.

 

"You both are, and I'm tired of it," d'Artagnan says quickly. "Tired full stop. Can you please take me home, Aramis? Or I'll take you home. I don't care."

 

"Take tomorrow off, both of you," Athos says. "I'm staying here, you might as well get the time off, too."

 

Aramis grumbles, but takes d'Artagnan home. d'Artagnan sighs in relief when he gets into his flat. He hasn't been back for a while, but the two flatmates who are in and up both greet him as if nothing's strange. d'Artagnan waves tiredly and retreats to his room, pulling off his trainers on his way and chucking them into the closet.

 

He collapses on his bed, thinks wistfully of days with Ninon, and falls asleep. He wakes to someone in his room, and his reflexes have definitely improved with the Musketeers. He's awake and ready for action before he really registers anything. It's just Constance, though, picking her way through his mess. He switches on the light.

 

She's in jeans and a leather jacket, hair all bundled up under a beanie. She has a crackle of magic about her, a grin wide and bright with adrenaline, and she's got an honest to God utility belt around her hips. d'Artagnan moves up to make room for her in the bed, and watches her strip, head resting on his knee, enjoying her body.

 

"Do I get a kiss hello?" she asks, crawling naked up over the covers. d'Artagnan raises his head in invitation, but yawns into her mouth accidentally. "Never mind, my tired bunny."

 

"Why does everyone have nicknames for me?" d'Artagnan grumbles. "Aramis called me 'britches' today."

 

"He did? Strange man, that one. Do you want to hear about the singing house of terror? Did you know DCI Alaman sings like a ducking angel?"

 

"I thought that was just autocorrect."

 

"Auto _ tune. _ "

 

"No I meant the 'duck' instead of 'fu-"

 

"No swears," Constance says, covering his mouth. "Naughty boy."

 

"Oh no, I'm not playing that game. No infantilising in this bed."

 

"What about my bed, my naughty, naughty boy? Sorry. I'm really horny."

 

"And that gets you off?"

 

"Not really. I'm also a bit silly. Do you want to have silly sex?"

 

"Not really. Did you get rid of the house?"

 

"Mm. Powerful stuff, bit of a thrill. Samara's really duckin’ good at her job, isn't she? I haven't worked with her in the field in a while. Or in the field much, actually, recently. I'm so totally doing more of it."

 

"You said you might have a theory about the others."

 

"Not tonight. Let's not talk about them, or work. Tell me how naked I am."

 

"Very, very naked," d'Artagnan agrees happily, punctuating it with kisses.

 

He wakes up sated and well rested, though a little sticky. Constance has wrapped herself firmly around him, her hair spread over the pillow in disarray. Her head's back, mouth open, and she's snoring. Her thighs are clamped around d'Artagnan's leg, and he can't escape. She has strong legs. His phone rings, distracting him from Connie's thighs.

 

"Mm?" he answers. "um, d'Artagnan. Sorry."

 

He yawns.

 

'It's Superintendant Anne Royal. I was hoping we might call a meeting.'

 

"Ma'am!" d'Artagnan says, waking fully up abruptly, struggling out of Constance's hold and automatically looking for his pants. "Of course, of course. What?"

 

'A meeting. At the John Hudson hotel on George Street. Bring Constance with you. I will see you both at two pm. That’s in three hours.'

 

"Right. Right. I'll... we'll be there."

 

The Superintendent has already hung up. d'Artagnan shakes a grumbling Connie awake and tries to explain the situation. She glares at him until he finally gets it clear, and then she yawns and stretches, kicking the covers off.

 

"What is this new being naked thing?" d'Artagnan asks, still in a bit of a panic.

 

"I've always liked being naked. It's just that until recently it hasn't been entirely appropriate for me to be naked with you. I like the development, though. Definitely. I like you being naked, too. Look at all this!"

 

Connie runs a hand down d'Artagnan's chest to his groin. d'Artagnan slaps her hands away and scrambles out of bed, into his pants, and tumbles towards the bathroom. She follows, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and knickers. d'Artagnan's flat mate gives him a wide smile and a thumbs up, over her bowl of Cornflakes. d'Artagnan ignores this.

 

By the time they reach the hotel, d'Artagnan has calmed down considerably. Thanks in part to Constance who, after realising he was actually nervous, had stopped teasing him and started being lovely. They walk in side by side, Constance in last night's outfit (minus utility belt and beanie). DCI Alaman, SP Anne Royal and DI de Winter are waiting in the conference room reception points them to. d'Artagnan slides into a seat next to DI de Winter while Connie hugs Anne.

 

"Morning, grasshopper," Milady says, passing him coffee.

 

"Afternoon, technically," d'Artagnan says.

 

"Whatever. This is cool. We're like the backup, meeting to destroy the Scooby gang."

 

"We're not the big bad," d'Artagnan protests.

 

"Maybe you're not."

 

d'Artagnan laughs, remembering why he liked her so much. He decides he's definitely going to have to be better at keeping in touch and socialising outside of work. Superintendent Royal calls the meeting to order, then. Connie sends d'Artagnan a quick smile.

 

"Thank you for coming. I think we all know that we have a little bit of a problem. Or, possibly, several problems stemming from the same source. DCI Alaman?"

 

"We think we have a Gentleman," DCI Alaman says, lowering her head in a quick nod of thanks.

 

"Sorry, I don't know what that is," d'Artagnan says.

 

"What did I say, last time we did this?" DCI Alaman says, raising her eyebrow. d'Artagnan quickly raises his hand, ignoring SP Royal's quickly covered smile. "A Gentleman is a fragment, very dark, can be incredibly powerful if the fragment is large enough. We believe that this particular Gentleman is another phenomena from Thomas de la Fere."

 

"Which is why I am here," DI de Winter says. "I know that I am not the only woman that Thomas..."

 

d'Artagnan realises, finally, just exactly what it is that came between Athos and Milady, and feels instantly ill. He covers his reaction quickly, knowing it won't help anyone, remembering Milady is an Empath. A very powerful Empath. He finds some calm instead. Milady gives him a smile.

 

"Thomas de la Fere definitely did some bad things," DI de Winter says. "When he and I... the dark shade. When he died... I remember that. It was the last straw for me, with Athos. Athos grieved, and I couldn't bear that. Athos went to visit the prison, afterwards, and when he came back he was so worn and hopeless. I found him later that night, with a rope. He hadn't got very far, he woke me up. I found all kinds of energy all over him. There is definitely the possibility of a Gentleman, and it is possible that it manifested now for the same reason the white lady did."

 

"You've been using your familiar," DCI Alaman says. "Just get a degree, you stupid woman. Then it won't be like this."

 

"Have you ever tried to get through academia with PTSD, when it was- I was doing my degree," DI de Winter says. "I'm sorry. This is all very personal for me, and I am struggling to separate what is pertinent."

 

"I will help you. You will get a degree," DCI Alaman says.

 

"Use of a familiar can and will arouse manifestations that are linked to that familiar. I am going to assume that you used magic, any magic, all magic. No need to answer that," SP Royal says. "Let's move along. The fact that Thomas' Gentleman is connected with you is a little disturbing. It going after Athos is understandable. Can we get a few theories about how we've missed it, please? That will help us understand more about it. Gentlemen are very varied in their manifestation and power, d'Artagnan. Right, fifteen minutes. Work on your own, please. I expect three suggestions from each of you."

 

"d'Artagnan can work with me," DI de Winter says, both a demand and a request. SP Royal grants it with a shrug, getting up.

 

"I have calls to make," she says. "I'm needed in several different places at once. Fifteen minutes, three suggestions."

 

They get twenty minutes, in the end, and d'Artagnan and Milady come up with five suggestions. SP Royal listens carefully, taking notes, then sits back. She huffs out a breath, then nods.

 

"Here's what I think. I think that we're dealing with a Gentleman who would register as a six or seven. I think it is drawing on DI de Winter's Empath abilities, through it's link with it’s familiar. I think that the reason it has gone undetected- who came up with the cat? That is good. I like it."

 

"d'Artagnan," DI de Winter says, promptly, gripping his shoulder. "Says he just thought the cat was weird from hanging around that office. Which is also a valid possibility."

 

"I think that we should assume that the Gentleman has been using the cat, for three reasons. One, the name thing. The cat is hard to pinpoint, power-wise, and that's when you get that multitude of names. People automatically try to categorise things, and when they can't they test things out.

 

"Two, the affinity between cat and Porthos. I know that a lot of things have an affinity for Porthos, and vice versa, alone it might be meaningless. The thing that unsettles a lot of people about Brights is their affinity to Gentlemen. Most credible sources now put this down to Brights having an affinity to all phenomena, but there is always something on the edge between a Bright and a gentleman, and Porthos is very attached to that cat.

 

"Three, the cat finding it's way to that house is very strange. I made a note of it at the time. Even a cat who soaked up the Musketeers' office should not be able to find them like that. They don't leave traces, part of their job is not to leave traces. A Gentleman would be able to, though.

 

"Let's look at the cat as conduit and hiding place. Agreed?"

 

They all nod, and d'Artagnan feels a swell of pride.

 

"Good. We know how, we know where, we know who. Let's try and work out what our next steps are going to be. Constable Holmes, any more bright ideas?"

 

SP Royal looks a little confused, then turns to Constance. Constance makes an apologetic face and shrugs. DCI Alaman gives d'Artagnan a pleased nod, and DI de Winter sniggers.

 

"What?" d'Artagnan asks, looking around.

 

"You haven't by any chance noticed a lot of people giving you nicknames?" SP Royal asks him.

 

"Well, yeah. Seems to be a thing," d'Artagnan admits, shrugging. He's often been the youngest at things. He's used to it, it's not a problem.

 

"Mm. I think you're probably going to manifest some kind of Ability at some point," SP Royal says. "Interesting, you've never shown signs of it before? No, I've read your file. I'm going to take a wild guess, and say that your mother is a sea creature of some kind."

 

"Not that I know of," d'Artagnan says. "I haven't seen her in a while, she and my father split up when I was young."

 

"Yes, that often happens with cross-species partnerships," DCI Alaman says. "I would suggest a Sea Spirit, perhaps. They take to mortals. Or a Selkie, that often leads to very strange abilities."

 

"I don't think Mum's anything like that," d'Artagnan says, smiling. "She always hated the water, wouldn't go near it."

 

"That can happen, if a Selkie is locked to the land and cannot swim," DCI Alaman says. "And the fairies do like you an awful lot. Would you like to do eight weeks with me, next?"

 

"I refuse to be your lab rat," d'Artagnan says. "Beside, my mother was probably just human."

 

"Oh!" Constance says. d'Artagnan glares. "Sorry, I just realised, though. Do you know why Porthos tagged you as someone for the buy-one-get-two-free’s?"

 

"No. Because he was bored, tired, and his knee hurt?" d'Artagnan suggests.

 

"No. Maybe. But before that, they'd all heard of you and I always wondered why. Ninon likes Athos and hangs around the office gossiping with him sometimes. Porthos was down in the labs one day, playing with the anti grav bubbles Morden was studying then, and he told me about Ninon's new Constable, the man with the rain-proof hair and alarming ability to keep calm."

 

"I don't have rain-proof hair."

 

"You do a bit," DI de Winter says. "It all just slides off you. You came and sat outside with me in a downpour once, and I noticed."

 

"So?"

 

"You're probably half Selkie," DCI Alaman says, nodding.

 

"Enough of this," SP Royal says. "This isn't helping, and it may be upsetting. It is also personal business, we do not speculate about our colleagues. Sorry for not shutting this down earlier, Constable d'Artagnan."

 

"Right," d'Artagnan mutters, flushing.

 

Connstance mouths another apology at him, but he ignores it. He hasn't seen his mother in years. She broke his father's heart. A niggling, betraying bit of his brain reminds him of his mother's skill at healing, something he knows Selkie's are known for. Fairies, Selkies and Goblins are the magical world's answer to doctors. His mother's healing had also always had a lot to do with oil and water, another Selkie thing. 

 

"Half an hour to come up with some strategies. Work apart for ten minutes, then together. I need to step out again. I'll get some food sent in," SP Royal says, leaving them to it.

 

Everyone apologises, as soon as she's out of the room. d'Artagnan's glad when DI de Winter moves them along, away from it, though. He doesn't want to think about it.

 

"Our strategy is to hit it with all we've got, then?" SP Royal asks, almost an hour later, shaking her head. "Gentlemen are one of the few phenomena that think. They're clever, especially if they're Mages. I've spoken to a few contacts, and there is some suspicion, and some down right accusation, that Thomas de la Fere was a Sorcerer, which makes it worse. Let's go over what you've thought of. DCI Alaman?"

 

"I think fire. It's the best answer to Gentlemen," DCI Alaman says. "I use it more than any other strategy."

 

"Alright. Are we to just set fire to the cat? Because I believe we can be arrested for animal cruelty if we do that. Not to mention the revenge Porthos is sure to take," DI de Winter says, as she did earlier when Samara suggested it.

 

"Thank you, I think fire will feature in whatever plan we come up with. We won't set fire to the cat. Con, please tell me you've thought of something brilliant," SP Royal says, resting her head in her hands, breaking formality for the first time since hugging Constance. 

 

"I didn't, sorry. I think we need to break its connection with DI de Winter's familiar before we can do anything. That will hobble it of some of the power it's used to having and make some of it's usual operations useless."

 

"Good. That will be our first step. Any ideas how to do that?"

 

"I have one," DI de Winter says. "Convince me Athos is dead."

 

Everyone goes quiet, working that one out.

 

"I... see," SP Royal says, nodding. "It would affect your Ability, wouldn't it? You and Athos are both Empaths, that kind of marriage... yes. I don't see how it would effect your familiar, though."

 

"I don't even know what a familiar _ is _ ," d'Artagnan says, quickly raising his hand when DCI Alaman looks his way. She smiles at him, amused.

 

"It's the spiritual side of magic," Constance says, pretty dismissive, concentrating on the problem. "You were eighteen, when you and Athos met, no? So transition from Hedgewitch to Witch was with him. Your familiar is something that developed along side him."

 

"Yes," DI de Winter says. "I think if he died, my familiar would change. I also think that Thomas' Gentleman would not pass up an opportunity to go to Athos' funeral. We could sever the connection, and have it cornered. I suggest we use mirrors and sunshine."

 

"Fire," DCI Alaman says, nodding. "Yes, that is close enough. The reflection would echo, create a groove, and it might just encircle the Gentleman in what effectively would be fire. I think I can come up with a spell for that."

 

"I have some ideas," Constance says, nodding. "I've done stuff with mirrors before. Lots."

 

"Good. Once the Gentleman is stripped of it's extra power and trapped, you can banish it, DCI Alaman?" SP Royal says.

 

"I have done it once or twice, but my record is not unbroken," DCI Alaman admits, grimacing. "Porthos is better at it, but he is sick. Athos also, but he needs to be, well, dead."

 

"I can banish a Gentleman," SP Royal says. "It was what I was best at, back in the day. My forte. I never encountered a seven before, especially not one like Thomas de la Fere. He had wide research habits. I can do it, with your help Samara. I think between us we have the right background."

 

"He was one of the Morroc Black Sorcerers," DCI Alaman says, suddenly. "Wasn't he? He bastardized my culture and language to create something so terrible the country has not yet recovered."

 

"I don't know," SP Royal says. "Not for sure. I've been looking into Thomas de la Fere for a while, and some of the threads I've followed up have lead me to that inference. His research definitely covered the magic Spanish Moors brought with them from Morocco, and he definitely used both Arabic and Spanish in formulating his spells."

 

"Then I will take him to pieces, every last vestige of him," DCI Alaman says.

 

"One last thing, before I call this meeting to a close. We are not going to actually kill Athos," SP Royal says.

 

"I suggest that DI de Winter does not hear this," Constance says, sending Milady an apologetic look.

 

"Good idea," Milady says, rising. "Cat, funeral, mirrors, banishment. I will be the grieving widow. I'll feel it when my familiar shifts, you should all feel it too, even our little seal. Sorry, d'Artagnan, it's hard to control."

 

"I realise that," d'Artagnan says. _ Constable Holmes _ he thinks. "What am I to do in all this?"

 

"You're our inside man," Constance says.

 

"Time to go, DI de Winter," DCI Alaman says, grinning.

 

"See you later?" Milady asks.

 

"Of course," DCI Alaman says.

 

Milady leaves, and Constance concentrates, then relaxes, nodding. She must have followed Milady out and made sure she was really gone.

 

"We do not need an inside man, with this plan," DCI Alaman says. "We use Porthos. He can convince everyone that Athos is dead. He can project, Aramis can manipulate emotion and Porthos can project it and emit it."

 

"That's actually a very good idea," SP Royal says.

 

"Aramis has a lot more control recently," Constance says. "He attributes it to the fairies, but I have a feeling. I'm sorry, love. If d'Artagnan's mother really was a Selkie, from what I've seen and what I know of him I think there's a good chance that d'Artagan's a Sky Lark. Which would balance out Aramis nicely."

 

"A Sky Lark?" d'Artagnan asks. "What is that?"

 

"A Sky Lark," DCI Alaman breathes, as if it all makes sense. "Yes. That would work, wouldn't it? He is sharp enough. A Sky Lark, pup- sorry, Constable d'Artagnan. A Sky Lark is named for the steady circling of that bird. Not many overt powers, but a lot of influence on the Abilities around it. Think of spreading, balancing. You are very passionate, which sometimes goes hand in hand with the other aspect of Sky Larks."

  
  


Constance laughs, then quickly covers her mouth. d'Artagnan opens his mouth to ask, but SP Royal is smiling, already ready to answer.

 

"Impatience" SP Royal says. "When a Sky Lark does have overt powers, they can usually only be sparked by impatience, and go hand in hand with that. Speed, calm under pressure, thinking on your feet. Basically the things that will win you your fight. It's brief, but it's often enough to get Sky Larks known as good soldiers."

 

"I'm not impatient," d'Artagnan grumbles.

 

"Not at all," Constance soothes. "Not at all. It doesn't really have a bearing, except that my theory makes Aramis a much more stable entity that we can plan for. His fairy theory has too many holes to stand up to scrutiny. Porthos thinks Aramis is getting better because he's been practising, but when Porthos thinks Aramis is practising, Aramis is usually napping in the labs, I know for a fact."

 

"Good. We will rely on Aramis. I think we have a plan, ladies? Sorry, d'Artagnan," SP Royal says.

 

"I think we'll have to tell the Inseparables," DCI Alaman says. "I vote that I not be the one to do that."

 

"I will do it," SP Royal says. "You will all be there, though. Tomorrow is early enough, they are all expected back at work. We will have them called out to this location, and re-group here. We will tell them the absolute minimum. d'Artagnan, you will not have been in this meeting, you will know as little as they. All we will tell them is that Athos must be thought dead. I will come up with a cover story for that, I'm sure I can twist a current case around enough to be convincing. Let's leave Porthos out of it, because he is very likely to see through me. He has a bullshit radar which I cannot for the life of me trick."

 

DCI Alaman laughs softly, clearly imagining or remembering SP Royal attempting such a thing. SP Royal gives her a rueful smile.

 

“Before you go, it has been brought to my attention that Constable d'Artagnan has made a Goblin promise, without understanding it,” SP Royal sas. “I need to have legal talk to him, unless this can be cleared up without that? We have two Goblins in the department and I'm sure we can extract him from it."

 

"Let me explain it to him," Connie says. "He made the promise so they'd treat Porthos, and we don't need another set of magical creatures after him. The Fairies laws are back in place since we got rid of the house, but he lost a piece of himself already. Which reminds me of a concern, actually. If Porthos is to convince Milly of Athos' death and project all that, there is a good chance that Charon will show. Which... I mean, we did want fire, but last time he nearly started another fire of London."

 

"I can contact Flea," DCI Alaman says. "She likes me."

 

"Do so. Get that under control. If you must, I give you permission to share the same plan we're sharing the with Musketeers. Let's wrap this up. I'll write a report and send it to each of you. It will be encrypted, and you will need the password."

 

She gives it to each of them in the front of brand new, empty notebooks.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

"How's Porthos?" d'Artagnan asks, the next morning, when Athos comes in nearly an hour late.

 

"Not well, in a lot of pain, and grouchy as hell," Athos says. "The last of course applies to myself also."

 

"Anything we can do?" Aramis asks.

 

"No," Athos says. "Nothing anyone can do."

 

Marmalade stalks into the room, just then, and the atmosphere gets a little tenser. That's definitely got worse, since the white lady incident. d'Artagnan suspects, and Constance agrees, that it's probably because of DI de Winter's use of magic for the banishment.

 

The call comes in at eleven am, and they troop out to the hotel, d'Artagnan carrying the equipment Aramis insists they need for a job that has no details. d'Artagnan wishes he could say something, but keeps his mouth shut. In the conference room Superintendent Royal is sat at a long table with DCI Alaman on one side, and Constance on the other. There are three chairs set up before the panel. They all sit without question.

 

"This is going to seem odd to you. I'm sure you have read enough in the papers about the Renard case to know that it is highly confidential and need to know," SP Royal says. "I'm going to make a request. It is a request, not an order. I will give you a week to think about it. I can't tell you much, I will lay out the plan as you need to know it."

 

She tells them about Athos' faked death, fudging something about Renard's relations with the de la Fere's and refusing to give details. It convinces Aramis. Athos looks a bit wary, until SP Royal tells him how it is they're going to fake his death, when he gets distracted by Porthos' role and forgets his suspicions.

 

"He's sick, already in pain from a loss, and you want to inflict another on him?" Athos says. "You are, I hope, going to tell him that it is not real, that we are faking my death. You are not going to let him believe it."

 

"Of course," SP Royal says.

 

"He can probably do it, even as sick as he is," Aramis says. "Especially if we give him a week to rest up."

 

"At least a fortnight, preferably a month or two," Athos says at once. "And I get at least one of the weeks off."

 

"That could work to our advantage. We were going to have you hurt in an accident, but sickness works, especially with the way you are looking," DCI Alaman says. "It would be easy to give you some convincing symptoms."

 

"Porthos likes him in one piece," d'Artagnan says.

 

"We can give him symptoms that won't harm him. Imitations," DCI Alaman concedes.

 

"You'll get a fortnight, the second week you will be off sick," SP Royal says.

 

"I haven't agreed yet," Athos says. "I don't want Porthos to have to do it. We can't get his consent at the moment, I'd have to consent for him."

 

"He is bad?" DCI Alaman says.

 

"The fairies took Charon and Flea, 'Mara," Athos says, sounding exhausted. "It's in the report, so I'm not breaking a confidence telling you."

 

"They took them?" DCI Alaman says, sounding worried. "I will come see him, tonight. Aramis, you will come too. I have some spells and healing spells that will work well with your Ability. I know some very old Arabic magic, some that talks of healing the soul. Any new phenomena, afterwards?"

 

"No," Athos says. "We checked. I think Porthos is resilient. He knows them both post-mortem, which is an entirely different set of memories, so there is- my theory is that they didn't actually manage to get everything. They have to get everything, even a murmur can rebuild memories."

 

"Good. Aramis and I will work on getting Porthos ready. If we can do something about this, will you give your consent?" DCI Alaman says.

 

"I give it, conditional to your healing working at least partially. Porthos would give it without reserve, I can only protect him so far. I want to call Doctor Lemay back, too, and expense it. He is still in a lot of pain from the hollow bones. It should be easing, but it isn't. Not much."

 

"Done. I will have that paperwork set up tomorrow," SP Royal says.

 

And with that, they're free to go. Athos is driving today, and he takes them back to his flat, pointing them to the kitchen. Aramis sets about making lunch, d'Artagnan perches on the counter and watches.

 

"You've been quiet," Aramis observes.

 

"It's a lot," d'Artagnan says. "It's... my mother left my father. She was Supernatural- a Mage. It made me wary of anything in this field, and here I am. My father recently died. It's a lot to take in and learn anyway. I'm a bit overwhelmed, to be honest."

 

"You're doing really well," Aramis says.

 

"I used to be so brash. I'd dash into trouble without a thought. But when my father died, I just couldn't find the heart for it any more. One of the reasons I insist on staying with Ninon is I don't dare, anymore. I don't really care much. I just want an easy life," d'Artagnan says, ashamed to realise that it's true. "I just want to put in the minimum, go home, watch TV, sleep, and repeat."

 

"Grief and depression can hit like that. You're good at all this, you have good instincts. You impressed Athos so much in a five minute interview that he pushed to have you intern with us."

 

"Interview?"

 

"That's what was happening, before Anne called you in, your first day at the office. We interview candidates in a different way to most departments. We have an Empath and a Bright, so we just expose you to a series of situations, and measure your response. You're really very good."

 

"Thanks," d'Artagnan says.

 

"That said, mind, there is no point at all in doing this if you don't have a passion for, or at the very least an interest in, it. Besides which your grief, this depression, it is a valid reason not to want to go into something new and potentially triggering and upsetting. Stressful and pressured are two ways I would describe this job."

 

"I don't know," d'Artagnan says. "I like working with you."

 

"You have a place, if you want it. We're unlikely to find anyone else who fits with us, so it'll stay open a good long while, so you can afford to take your time. Athos will make the offer formally when you leave."

 

d'Artagnan nods, looking at his knees. He's grateful for the offer, for Aramis talking to him. He's also relieved that there's not anger and recrimination and tension, today.

 

"In terms of feeling overwhelmed, you are welcome to talk to me. I would usually say Athos or Porthos, too, but they have a bit going on at the moment. There are also shrinks at work who have confidentiality and are very good. I can get you an appointment with them. It might help to talk some of this through with them."

 

"Maybe. Yeah, I think that'd be good," d'Artagnan says, thinking maybe he can talk about the rest of it, the things he's not telling Aramis. The secrets he's keeping. "Thanks."

 

"Of course. The welfare of this team is my business," Aramis says, smiling. "Sandwich?"

 

They eat perched side by side on the countertop. Athos comes through and takes his plate away, leaving Porthos' on the side. Porthos shuffles painfully through, Athos helping him, before they leave. He's anxious and stuttering, touching Aramis' face.

 

"He's worried we're fighting," Athos says, looking a bit guilty.

 

"Oh. We're not," Aramis says, also looking guilty. "Not any more. We'd been living on top of one another, and there's a lot to worry about, that's all."

 

Aramis embraces Athos, making a show of affection. Athos kisses Aramis' cheeks, and Aramis laughs. Porthos pads over to d'Artagnan.

 

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Hurt," Porthos says.

 

He insists it, over and over, getting more and more upset as d'Artagnan tries to deny it. Aramis eventually steps in, suggesting d’Artagnan’s hyst feeling overwhelmed. Porthos shakes his head, though, tugging at d'Artagnan's wrist and absolutely insisting that he's hurt.

 

"I don't know what he means," Athos says, sounding distressed too. "He's been saying it since last night. He's absolutely certain that you're hurt. I thought at first it was because at the hospital I said the fairies _ tried _ to fix you, that upset him before, but it's not that. Are you hurt? At all, in any way?"

 

"No," d'Artagnan says, baffled by it.

 

On their way out, after Athos settles Porthos back into bed, d'Artagnan misses his footing on the stairs and falls. Athos catches him, reflexes lightning quick, and saves him from taking a header, so he only twists his ankle. They stare at one another.

 

"Can Porthos...?" d'Artagnan says, tentatively. His ankle really hurts. Maybe it's a sprain.

 

"Not so far," Athos says.

 

"It's broken," Aramis says, frowning. "I can heal the bone. It'll hurt like a son of a bitch, and it'll still be tender, but you'll be able to walk on it. I've had loads of practise at bones, recently."

 

d'Artagnan nods. Aramis lays a hand over d'Artagnan's ankle. It hurts more than anything d'Artagnan has ever experienced. Not just his ankle, either, but his entire body, sending his muscles spasming, and the inside of his mind feeling as if something is pinching all his thoughts, twisting them, torturing them. He screams and screams. It lasts for fifteen minutes.

 

When d'Artagnan comes back to himself, Porthos is sat beside him, looking grim. His hand's on d'Artagnan's back and there are soothing, calm waves emanating from him.

 

"I'm alright," d'Artagnan whispers, voice gone.

 

"'e's not s'posed to do that," Porthos says, glaring at Aramis, who's stood a good distance away nursing a bleeding nose and a black eye. "I told 'im not to try an' mess with temporality. It's like tryin' to untoast bread, it doesn' work."

 

"His ankle is no longer broken," Athos points out.

 

"You know in the second Harry Potter when Lockheart points out Harry's arm is no longer bust?" Porthos says.

 

d'Artagnan laughs. The other two look confused.

 

"Lockheart tries to mend Harry's broken arm and accidentally removes all the bones," d'Artagnan explains.

 

"There are no lasting effects," Aramis mutters.

 

"You don' know that," Porthos says. "d'Artagnan ain't goin' anywhere this afternoon, he's stayin' with me."

 

"How are you up and coherant?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Athos," Aramis says. "It seems some of his control is returning."

 

"Empaths can... what, heal that hollow bone thing?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"No," Porthos says. "He's helpin' me with losing Charon and Flea. Emotional support, but better. Come on, let's get you upstairs. You're gonna need rest, whatever else that good for nothing Aramis has done to you. Sometimes I wonder what it is we keep you around for, d'Herblay. It isn't the pleasant conversation or the intelligence."

 

"Go on ahead," d'Artagnan says. "I'm going to sit for a minute."

 

Porthos looks at him, head on one side, then nods. Athos follows Porthos up, and d'Artagnan pats the step beside him. Aramis sits, looking forlorn. No, d'Artagnan realises. He looks heartbroken.

 

"I'm so sorry," Aramis says. "I thought it would help. I forgot that stuff Porthos told me about temporality and burnt toast. The arrow of time. He's right, I should really get better control and train."

 

"No harm, no foul," d'Artagnan says. "I think he's just mouthing off. There's not anything wrong with me a long nap won't fix."

 

"He sounded like he meant it, all that stuff about not wanting me around."

 

"He's probably in pain, and tired. Remember the way you and Athos fought the other day? You still love each other, though, right?"

 

"Yeah," Aramis says. "Porthos doesn't usually talk to me like that. He hasn't hit me before, either. Not properly. Not like this. He broke my nose, I think."

 

"I would suggest not fixing it," d'Artagnan says, unable to help himself.

 

Aramis laughs, then hisses in pain. Athos comes back down the stairs and gives an expectant jerk of the head. d'Artagnan climbs up to him, using the handrail for support when his ankle hurts. It bears his weight, though.

 

"Aramis needs a doctor. His nose is broken. Perhaps some reassurance, too," d'Artangnan says.

 

"I know," Athos says, cupping d'Artagnan's cheek. "I'll look after him. You look after yourself."

 

d'Artagnan trusts Athos to do that, so he goes back up to the flat and makes his way to the living room. Porthos calls from the bedroom, though, so d'Artagnan goes to stand in the doorway. Porthos is curled on the bed, holding a cushion.

 

"Hey. I'm pretty drugged up, and it hurts quite a lot, but you should be in here where I can keep an eye on you," Porthos says, patting the empty space on the bed.

 

"We're not supposed to cuddle," d'Artagnan reminds him.

 

"Rubbish. What twat told you that?" Porthos says, with a small grin.

 

d'Artagnan goes and lies gingerly beside him, relaxing when Porthos touches his shoulder. He realises Porthos is actively calming him, and glares. Porthos looks unrepentant, but withdraws his hand.

 

"I was confused, when I said that, and I think we can go by friend, instead of colleague, now," Porthos says.

 

"Why did you hurt Aramis like that?" d'Artagnan says, forgetting about the Gentleman and anything except the devastation in Aramis' eyes, the blood on his face, his broken nose.

 

"I don't know. I've never felt anger like that before," Porthos says. "I thought he was hurtin' you. I knew he was hurtin' you. I've been havin' these weird thoughts, getting more and more. They're external. I'm sure of it. Athos says it's just the drugs, that none of it is real, but I sure been talking to someone."

 

"Yeah," d'Artagnan agrees.

 

"It isn't your Sky Lark kicking in, either, like Athos and Aramis. I thought maybe it was your mother, for a bit. There's a lot of folk lore about Selkies and a sort of language that can cover hundreds of miles to each other, the sound of the sea, Whale language, lots of theories. Never come across it, but I'd maybe hear somethin' if it were true."

 

"You just know everything, don't you?" d'Artagnan says.

 

"Spotted it when I couldn't stop calling you weird names. I called you Little Seal, in Haitian. I don't speak Haitian. My mother did. That's what tipped me off. There's some old magic from her that I have a sort of instinctual access to, and the language of their magic is one of those things."

 

"You're incredible," d'Artagnan says.

 

"That's what they tell me. I'm not, though. I did a lot of training, and had a lot of education, to get here. It's not Ability, or ability, or talent, it's practise and hard work."

 

"Yes, but practise and hard work are incredible."

 

"Alright. God," Porthos says, his eyes sliding shut, a shudder running through him. "Ow. You balance us out, you know. It's good. Athos tells me that you're all faking his death for a Renard case. Anne clearly forgot that I get briefed on stuff that SI's involved with, as they use half my sources and make me do lots of the interviews."

 

"Oh?"

 

"Nothin' in the Renard background that'd necessitate this. Nothing to connect him with Athos at all."

 

"I wouldn't know."

 

"Samara and Constance were on that panel. Athos will work it out before two weeks is up, and Aramis won't be far behind. Athos is already suspicious. He'll get suspicious of you. One of the things about us is we trust each other."

 

"It'll effect the outcome."

 

"Yeah, well, that's just the way it is, sometimes," Porthos says, suddenly harsh.

 

d'Artagnan realises it's because he's in pain, not because he's mad. d'Artagnan wishes he had Aramis or Athos' Ability, something that'd help. What's the point of being a Selkie descendant if he can’t help? d'Artagnan laughs, suddenly, and climbs out of the bed, hurrying to his bag. He digs around until he finds the bottle he still carries everywhere. His mother's ointment.

 

"Wha?" Porthos says, when d'Artagnan returns.

 

"Something that'll help," d'Artagnan says confidently, kneeling by Porthos and getting his t-shirt up and mostly off.

 

He rubs the liniment into all of the muscles he can reach without invading Porthos' privacy, using the careful strokes his father taught him. Vet turned farmer, Alexander d'Artagnan had known a lot about muscles and rubbing an animal down. d'Artagnan thinks it translates alright into human care. His father did this for him a time or two, when he was eaten up by fever. Porthos is very much not an animal, but he calms and stills under d'Artagnan's hands, and d'Artagnan, for the first time in a long while, feels connected to his family.

 

For the first time in years he feels connected to his mother. Her healing is something he can learn. Something he will learn. He can help. His heritage is something he wants to know, to understand. A rush of knowledge and memory that he's been blocking comes flooding back.

 

"Oh, that was nice," Porthos says.

 

"It'll help. It's my mother's ointment."

 

"Not that, thought it is good. I meant that feelin', whatever it was you just felt. Sorry, but I'm a Bright and you're a Sky Lark and it's like calm in a sea 'a chaos."

 

"Oh."

 

"I can prob'ly work on turnin' it off."

 

"No, it's fine. I like it," d'Artagnan says.

 

"You're much more peaceful."

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I will tell you, and the others. Everything."

 

"Good. I can't... I need to rest. I... it still hurts."

 

"Drugged to the eyeballs, with Athos and Aramis' stuff lingering in you, my mother's ointment, and you're still in this much pain?" d'Artagnan asks.

 

"Sorry."

 

"Don't be. You can rest. I wish I could help more."

 

Porthos shivers, so d'Artagnan covers him up. Porthos’ face is drawn, and he's so pale. All the colour from his cheeks is gone. He looks thinner, too, and his eyes are a little sunken. Dark shadows under them, bruised into his skin. He whimpers as he falls asleep, and makes small sounds of distress once he's no longer conscious to suppress them.

 

d'Artagnan tries to soothe him, but it's impossible. Eventually he drops off into a doze, too. He dreams about the sea. When he wakes up Athos is there, frowning. d'Artagnan opens his mouth to apologise, but realises in time that Athos is frowning over Porthos. Athos' hand is pressed to the back of Porthos' neck, and d'Artagnan can feel the current of power, the connection between them. Aramis wanders in and smiles at him. There's a bit of plaster over his nose.

 

"Hey, you're awake," Aramis says. "Um, he didn't say he'd prefer me gone, did he? When I wasn't here?"

 

"No," d'Artagnan assures quickly. "Not at all. He said he didn't understand what made him so angry. Which is a question I can answer."

 

"Wait," Athos says. "Let Porthos rest while he can. Samara will exhaust him trying to find an answer, tonight. Shhh, hush Porthos."

 

Porthos stirs and whimpers, breaths coming sharper, pained gasps instead of the steady even sleep breathing. Athos shuts his eyes, concentrating. d'Artagnan reaches out, touching the bare skin at Athos' wrist, the pulse fluttering under his fingers. There's a sudden rush, and Athos' eyes snap open.

 

"What the hell was that?" Athos demands.

 

"Part of your answer," d'Artagnan says. "I can say this bit now, though, as he already knows."

 

"He guessed, huh?" Athos says, smiling.

 

"I think I did, too," Aramis says, sitting beside d'Artagnan, joining their hands and touching Porthos' cheek.

 

d'Artagnan feels this rush, too, but Aramis doesn't pull away. They ride it together, something flickering through Porthos, turning him silver and gold, blue racing through, darting here and there. Aramis reaches out and draws Athos' hand to d'Artagnan's neck, and the soft gold of Athos' Empathy joins the other colours.

 

Porthos' eyes snap open.

 

"Oi," he says, clearer and stronger than d'Artagnan has heard him in a long time. "Stop it. I just had an incredibly disturbing thought about my Superintendent."

 

Aramis draws his hand away as if he's been burnt, and d'Artagnan starts to laugh.

 

"I also quite fancy myself. Thanks, darlin'," Porthos says, the latter aimed at Athos, along with a leer. Athos flushes. "Hee hee! I never knew you liked that!"

 

"Sky Lark, right?" Aramis says, loudly. "That is very very cool, you know."

 

"You could mend an entire army of broken bones like that," Porthos says, reaching out and poking Aramis' nose.

 

Aramis yells in pain, then stop abruptly, and pokes at his own nose, frowning. He tears the plaster off and prods and wrigles it, a slow grin spreading over his face.

 

"How'd you know I did that?" Aramis says.

 

Porthos gets a very, very innocent look on his face.

 

"He had no idea you had," Athos says, drily.

 

Aramis growls and bats at Porthos' head playfully, and Porthos roars with laughter. Then, suddenly, he lashes out and shoves Aramis off the bed. Hard.

 

"Sorry," Porthos says, sitting up, the new colour he just gained draining right back out of his face. "Sorry. I don' know why I did that."

 

Athos pats Porthos' back, and Porthos turns, snarling.

 

"Don't touch me you stupid little cunt, what do you think you're doing with those grubby little bastard paws, you animal?" Porthos says.

 

Athos goes pale, then wriggles off the bed and stands with his back to the wall.

 

"I know those words," Athos whispers. "I know who talks like that."

 

"I should explain," d'Artagnan says, quickly, and does in as few words as possible.

 

Porthos starts to shake, half way through the explanation, leaning onto his knees, and then starts to sob. Athos comes back to the bed and Porthos gropes for him blindly, clinging when Athos gathers him in.

 

"I thought I was goin' mad," Porthos manages, between gulping cries. "I though I was hearin' voices. I thought I was gonna have to go into a white place."

 

"His mother was schizophrenic," Athos says. "I think I'm a little angry with you, d'Artagnan."

 

"It's not his fault," Aramis says. "And he's right, you know. We know, now. This is going to upset the Gentleman. That bloody cat. I knew it was evil."

 

"Just cause Lorca gave you a little tiny scratch," Porthos whispers, still huddled against Athos. "Oh, ow, ow."

 

"Why is he still hurting?" d'Artagnan asks, reaching out to touch then drawing back. "Shouldn't he be better?"

 

"Yes," Athos says. "Long ago, from the hollow bones. Lemay is coming tomorrow. I'm going to suggest we push the timetable of this up. I think we can stage a pretty good fight, somewhere in this week. If Aramis strikes me hard enough, we can easily fake a brain injury of some kind."

 

"You're gonna die," Porthos whispers. "I don't want you to. I don't want that, Ath."

 

"I'm not," Athos says. "We can talk later, I promise. The only problem is Porthos."

 

Athos indicates the lump of misery that Porthos is, the strained lines of pain, the tight breathing, the spasming leg. d'Artagnan frowns, thinking.

 

"Is it likely Samara will come up with anything?" he asks.

 

"No. Not if Aramis is having this little effect," Athos says.

 

"Lemay?"

 

"I've spoken to him on the phone. He has no ideas," Aramis says.

 

"What about the fairies?"

 

"We have no pull with them any more," Aramis says, then his eyes widen. "Oh, but you do. Maybe. Mabh did like that jacket. The power of that kind of love, two fold and reciprocated? Perhaps."

 

"Two fold?" d'Artagnan says.

 

"Oh yeah," Aramis says. "Obviously. That was powerful stuff she took."

 

d'Artagnan can't help the warm smile that spreads over him. Constance never mentioned the two-fold thing. It wasn't just his love for her, but hers for him. Not that he doubts her love, but that's... romantic. He shakes his head, though.

 

"As a last resort, maybe, but I am not confident that I can navigate fairy politics. I still don't know what a Goblin promise is and I've got one hanging over my head like a Sword of Damocles. Let's not add to that."

 

"No one's told you?" Aramis says. "I suppose it's been a bit frantic. A Goblin promise is just one you can't break. Like a King's, but with different consequences. If you break a Goblin promise, it usually means it echoes forwards, to future generations. You know about Changelings? Well, Goblins take kids, too, and keep them small, white and soft. It's like a promise for a promise, but the promise they take is the promise of a small life."

 

"I've already set up having the peanut butter left," Athos assures. "We're working on negotiating a different deal, where you're released from the promise. Or Doctor Chudry and Treville are, anyway."

 

"Oh," d'Artagnan says, faintly.

 

"If you and Connie were thinking of propagating-" Aramis starts, amused, but he stops when Porthos cries out with renewed pain. "Let's try that again, the thing where we all hold hand and sing Kumbaya."

 

"No point," Athos says, sounding weary. "It barely makes a dent. Nothing does."

 

"Is it because of Charon and Flea?" Aramis asks.

 

"No," Athos says. "I don't know what it is."

 

"I think I may know someone who can help. Possibly," d'Artagnan says. "I'm not entirely sure, I wouldn't make a Goblin promise on it, but it might at least lessen it."

 

"Anything," Athos says, as Porthos moans, shuddering through a body wrenching spasm. "God, anything."

 

d'Artagnan nods, and gets up, leaving the room. He can't do that with them there. He leaves the flat, too, and sits in the lift, stopping it between floors. If the call button goes, he can always release it. He's noticed before that he has signal here. He rings Connie, first.

 

"Just talk to me for a bit," d'Artagnan asks, when she answers.

 

She does, soothing his fears away. He admits that he told the others the rest of it, and she assures him Anne planned for that contingency.

 

'They're very persuasive. We know that' she says.

 

d'Artagnan breathes a bit easier, and gathers his courage around him. He says goodbye, and then he makes the call. The number is stored at the very bottom of his contacts list, has been there for years, updated every time a postcard came with a new one. A postcard of some seaside village, he remembers, now. She answers on the second ring, with his name. No one's called him by his name in years. Not since he left primary school.

 

'Charlie,' she breathes, relief and love and joy brushing him, from her voice alone.

 

"I need your help," d'Artagnan says. "My friend's badly hurt. I know you're a Selkie."

 

'A seal-woman, actually, which is slightly different. I'll teach you. Tell me about your friend.'

 

"I'm not promising anything, between us. For me and you. You left."

 

'Yes, I did. I understand.'

 

"He was hurt, there was some powerful magic. A mish mash of a manifestation we were trying to get rid of. We're Policemen."

 

'I know. Your father told me when you joined, we were both very proud. I knew you'd end up manifesting, some time. I'm sorry about the spark. I'm very sorry. I did love Alexander a lot.'

 

"Not now. There was all this magic in him, knitting with his bones. He's Bright, so no one can properly fix it. They said hollow bones, but he's not healing. He seems to be getting worse. And then fairies came and nicked some of his memories."

 

'You've met the fair folk, then. How wonderful. They like you, don't they? They always like us sea peoples.'

 

"Not the time. Can you come? Can you help us heal him?"

 

'He's Bright? Probably not. Not if it really is caught up with his Ability,' she says, and d'Artagnan's heart sinks, hope fleeing. 'Sea people are ancient, though. There are societies that have been around since before the earliest records. I think the Nymphs may know about the Brightness. I know a very nice, elderly Nymph. He's got mussels and barnacles and seaweed growing on him. He might help, if I name the right price. Can your friend pay?'

 

"Pay what?"

 

'Money, Charlie. Just money.'

 

"Oh. I don't know. I think Athos is loaded. I can check."

 

'If not we'll work it out between us, between sea-people. There are ways. Money is much easier, but we will manage one way or the other.'

 

"Can you come quickly?"

 

'I do not know where you are, child. That's the one thing your father insisted on. You had a right to privacy, he said. He thought I'd come and sneak a look at you. He was right. I would have.'

 

"London," d'Artagnan says.

 

'Then we will see each other very soon. I'm at the mouth of the Thames, and Father is here, too. You must call him Father. He has no name.'

 

"Whatever he wants. If he can help, I'll call him Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious if he wants."

 

'He might like that, so don't suggest it to him.'

 

"Okay. You'll come?"

 

'I need an address, but yes. Right away. We will be there before tonight, if I can promise him money.'

 

"I'll let you know about that. I'm sitting in the lift outside the flat, right now," d'Artagnan says, then gives her the address.

 

She tells him that she loves him, but he can't believe it or say it back. He goes back inside. Athos, is turns out, is indeed loaded. He inherited a boat load of money but never used it, because of Thomas. He promises to pay any price. Any at all.

 

They soothe Porthos to sleep, between d'Artagnan's ointment, Athos and Aramis' power, and d'Artagnan's Sky Lark Ability. Anne calls later, but Aramis says it'll have to wait. He puts Samara off, too. They're sitting in the bed, still, when the doorbell goes. d'Artagnan doesn't move, so Aramis gets up instead.

  



	11. Chapter 11

She looks exactly the way he remembers her, she hasn't aged a day. She stands in the doorway, and he sits on the bed, Porthos' back pressed against his thigh, Athos' hand on his shoulder, and they stare at one another.

“You haven't changed a bit,” she whispers.

She sounds like the sea. Her voice is like the in-out susurration of the sand and pebbles at the shore’s edge, with the deep tone of the waves over your head, crashing and roaring. She then bursts into tears, coming over, reaching out. D'Artagnan climbs off the bed, meaning to shake her hand or give her a little wave, but then he embraces her instead. Or lets her embrace him, lets her surround him, lets her whisper apologise and regrets into his hair.

“d'Artagnan?” he hears Porthos mutter. “What?”

“Shh,” Athos says. “It's good sorrow.”

“That is intense,” Aramis says.

“It's her, too,” A gruff voice says from the door. “Honestly, Ginger, cut it out. That's ridiculous. You've seen photos of the boy, no need for this. Do you have my money?”

“In cash? No,” Athos says.

“A bank transfer will do.”

“You have a bank?” Aramis says.

“So?”

“You have barnacles on your shoulders,” Aramis says.

“Charlie,” his mother whispers, into his ear, sending the sea through him and filling him up with a longing for the water. “Little Sky Lark. I have so much to teach you.”

“I've learnt far too much recently,” d'Artagnan mutters. “I don't use 'Charlie' any more. I use 'John'.”

“How lovely, to chose your own name. Have you made any other choices about yourself?”

“I use d'Artagnan, not… your name. Most people call me d'Artagnan. I got into the habit at school where there were a lot of 'John's.”

“What would you like me to call you?”

“d'Artagnan.”

“I always did like Alexander's name. You look like like him, you know. Except you have Seal-Woman hair.”

“I'm not a woman.”

“Sorry, it's the name of our- of my people. Thanks to the idiot sailors who decided we were all women because, well, we were sort of… everyone was very open to… offers. It's better than the alternative, which is 'Whores-of-the-Sea'.”

“Ginger, if we could move this along. I can't do anything at all with you trying to turn the room into a beach.”

d'Artagnan is let go. The floor is sandy under his feet, and things smell of seaweed. There's a breeze from the shut window with the scent of salt, and they can hear waves. Porthos is sat up, propped against Athos, watching d'Artagnan minutely, as if on guard for danger. d'Artagnan feels a rush of affection for him, and Porthos gives him a lopsided smile.

The sea retreats from the room, and a man steps out of the shadows. He's tall. Taller than d'Artagnan, and his mother, at least seven feet. He's not stooped, and doesn't look old the way d'Artagnan expected. His skin's smoother, his bearing upright. He's completely bald, except for some seaweed over an ear and a barnacle or two.

“I'm Father,” he says. “Let's get a look at this sunshine child of yours, then.”

d'Artagnan points to Porthos. Father demands they get him out of bed and to the arm chair, which Porthos gamely attempts. He makes it as far as his feet, takes a single step, and cries out in pain. Athos immediately takes hold of him, taking some of his weight.

“Let 'er go,” Father says. “I need to see 'er walk. It's not far, it'll not do any more damage.”

“You haven't even looked at him,” Athos snarls. “Are you a doctor? What are your credentials? I'm not letting you torture him.”

“I can always take my consultancy fee and leave,” Father says, lightly. Then, like the crack of a storm throwing the sea against a rock, “Let go.”

Athos lets go, but hovers at Porthos' side. Porthos gives him a betrayed look, reaching for him, but Athos shakes his head and points to the chair. Porthos clearly doesn't understand. He does as he's told, though, and walks across, panting and cursing, crying out each time his weight shifts. He collapses into the chair, half lying on it, half falling off it, and goes stiff and quiet.

“Now you may go help,” Father says, gently, gently, like barest hint of a breeze.

Athos moves Porthos until he's more or less sitting, then presses close, eyes shut, hand wrapped around Porthos' neck. d'Artagnan goes to hold Athos' wrist, and feels the rush that's fast becoming familiar. Porthos sighs, relaxing, still and quiet except for the spasming of one arm.

“Good,” Father says. “You've been doing that often? And the other one, that rude one, has been trying healing?”

“Yes,” Aramis says. “It's only really today that d'Artagnan's been able to do that. It's all having very little effect on Porthos.”

Father nods and shuffles Athos out of the way. He leans over Porthos, peering into his eyes and mouth and ears, tapping his chest, listening to his heart, running his hands briskly along Porthos' body, pressing until Porthos cries in pain. When he straightens up they all look at him expectantly.

“No hollow bones in this child,” he says. “She's sturdy as an oak. I will forgive the doctor who said as much, however, as the symptoms fit.”

“Porthos is a man,” Aramis says. “He. Not she.”

“Oh, I only use 'she',” Father says. “A much more pleasing sound, I think, and it makes little difference.”

“To them it makes a lot of difference,” d'Artagnan's mother says. “There's no changing Father, though, you'd best just let him get on.”

“She's got nothing wrong with her bones, anyway,” Father says. “There's a murmur in her heart, which is worrying. Some darkness, resting there.”

“There's a Gentleman,” d'Artagnan says.

“Hm, hm,” Father says, tipping his head one way then another as if weighing it up. “Possible, I suppose. Unlikely, though. No, my guess is a second soul. Sunshine children have a great capacity for drawing in fragments.”

“Like a shard of ice,” Porthos whispers. “In that fairy tale.”

“If you wish,” Father says. “A second soul. How exciting. Something very dark. It might be connected with your Gentleman, I suppose.”

“It uses a cat as a conduit and hiding place,” d'Artagnan says.

“Oh? Interesting. Have you been scratched by the cat recently?”

“When we were after that Fury,” Porthos whispers, reaching.

Athos pushes forwards and takes Porthos' hand, crouching so Porthos can see him, leaning into the chair's arm. Father checks the place Porthos says he was scratched, on his other arm, at the wrist. There's no mark.

“This is good. And then? What happens after the Fury?” Father asks.

“Um, I think the white lady was our next case,” Porthos says.

“White Lady? This one is a new name for something,” Father says, impatient. “Always renaming things, you humans.”

“She was jus' a lady who was white,” Porthos mutters. Athos explains properly, and Father nods.

“Any medical issues after that encounter?”

“Jus' a migraine. Get 'em a lot, though.”

“Next? After the migraine?”

“We confronted her. She went for Aramis, so d'Artagnan and I went in after her. She didn't like 'Mara doin' spells, and came and got me, inside of me, burning and twisting and breakin' everything. And then they got her out and Milly got rid 'a her by singing, and 'Mara banished the dark shade part.”

“Ah. Okay. We're getting a picture, now. And then?”

“Then the fairies came and stole from me,” Porthos says, sitting up, suddenly vicious. Then he slumps back again.

“I think you stole from them, first, unless that-” Father starts, then stops, smiling. “But they do not know, do they? Interesting. Very well, we will keep your secret. I can help you out with the fairy's destruction, anyway, even if I can't help you with the rest. I think your Gentleman did something to open you up to old magic, soul magic. Was what you term a Sorcerer, yes? And she has a personal vendetta against you?”

“Against me,” Athos whispers.

“Same thing,” Father dismisses. “This is good. Back to bed, now. I'm going to get some equipment and see if we can't go about finding whatever fragment is causing you harm. When you walk, you shuffle.”

“I have, since the white lady thing,” Porthos says. “Hurts too much.”

“Since the white lady? Not before?”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

“Can I help him?” Athos asks. Father waves him away dismissively, so Athos and d'Artagnan each get under one of Porthos' arms and help him shuffle back to bed. Father leaves the room, and then the front door bangs.

“It might take him a while to gather everything he needs,” d'Artagnan's mother says. “Shall I make tea? Oh, but I should introduce myself. I'm Françoise, or Frankie.”

“I'm Aramis, that's Athos and Porthos is the sick one,” Aramis says. “Tea would be lovely, d'Artagnan can help you in the kitchen.”

“No,” d'Artagnan says, not feeling like dealing with that right now. He climbs onto the bed instead, and sits next to Porthos, who is whimpering again, teeth bared, pressed into his pillow.

“I'll help you in the kitchen, then,” Aramis says, over Porthos' distressed sounds.

“I can ease the pain, I think,” Françoise says. “If you let me.”

“Go ahead and try,” Athos says, stroking Porthos' hair.

She rummages in her purses and comes out with a handful of herbs, which she lays on the bedside table, then some jars and bottle. She opens one, sniffs it, and nods. She sits on the bed, turns Porthos' head to the side and pours the contents of the bottle into his ear, whispering long, sighing words, cadence rising and falling. Porthos goes very, very limp and still, then groans.

“It will only ease, it cannot heal,” Françoise says, getting up. “We can only use it once or twice, as well, because it does just a little bit of damage.”

“Damage?” Athos asks, wary, anger lying in wait for the wrong answer.

“The spell. The words are too old, they eat into your heart if you're not careful. Take hold of you. That is how people drown themselves, the sea whispering to them until it can welcome them home.”

“Will that happen to him?” d'Artagnan asks.

“No, not from once or twice. It is like morphine, but targeted. It should ease the pain the fairies left, and if what I suspect Father thinks is right, then perhaps another pain.”

She retreats to the kitchen, Aramis trailing after her. Porthos does seem to feel a little better, his breathing is deeper and more even than it has been for a while, and the spasms are less. He's not whimpering, either, which is a good change. He lies quiet and pliant between d'Artagnan and Athos, hand roaming over his chest and stomach.

“Thank God something works,” Athos says, tipping his head back against the wall and shutting his eyes.

“Your mother a God, Charlie?” Porthos asks.

d'Artagnan freezes. He hadn't thought anyone could hear when his mother had said that. No one's supposed to know that name. Only his father. Only his mother, and she has no right to it. Only Alexander got to call him Charlie.

“Wha's wrong?” Porthos asks, shifting, agitated.

“You got his name wrong,” Athos says. “He's John. Remember? Sorry, d'Artagnan. He just forgets sometimes, still. He might be thinking of someone else.”

“I am not,” Porthos says, taken aback, hurt. “I got it righ', I know I did. Didn't I? You told me, d'Artagnan. In four months, when we went after that river spirit, you told me.”

“Oh yeah, he's definitely seeing the future,” Athos says. “That is new. Your name's Charlie?”

“No,” d'Artagnan snaps. “It's John d'Artagnan. He's just delirious. Mère said it was like morphine, and who knows what you've doped him up on.”

“I am not, I'm not,” Porthos says. “I didn't get it wrong. I didn't, I didn't. I didn't!”

He screams, coming off the bed, covering his ears, chanting that he didn't get it wrong. Aramis runs in. Porthos screams again, Athos trying to hug him, Aramis closing his eyes and rocking, blue and gold chasing over Porthos' body. Porthos just keeps on screaming, one long, piercing shriek after another. Françoise comes in and pushes Athos away, pressing a hand open-palmed on Porthos' forehead. No sea-whispers this time, but the deep roar of lying on the bottom of the ocean, the water over you. It brief, and Porthos falls back, unconscious.

“I knocked him out,” Françoise says, grimacing an apology. “I thought it might be for the best.”

Athos gathers Porthos up, holding him, rocking him. Porthos turns a gold, deeper and deeper, thrumming.

“I can't get to him,” Athos whispers.

“Someone else is in there with her,” Father says.

When he got back, d'Artagnan doesn't know. He's got a suitcase with him, which he places on the floor by the bed, unzipping it and opening it to reveal bits of flora, bottles, vials, and packets of pills. There are also some vicious looking instruments there, possibly for torturing.

“Someone's talking to her,” Father says.

“He's been hearing voices,” Athos says.

“They've been making him think awful things about himself,” d'Artagnan says, nodding.

“Yes. Now that might be your Gentleman. Charming customers, they do bring out the worst of people. Let's take a look inside her, shall we? You might not watch this, it can get… messy.”

Father selects one of the sharpest looking knives and comes over to the bed. He encourages Athos, gently but firmly, to lay Porthos on his front at the edge, then cuts a sharp, deep line in his scalp, peeling back the skin. Athos yells.

“I'm not cutting anything physically,” Father soothes. “It won't hurt her a bit. If I were really performing brain surgery I'd shave her head. She's a very good patient. No, this is just what you call a conduit. It's an illusion, helps my magic.”

Father peels back Porthos' entire scalp, but it doesn't reveal a brain and blood. It's like clockwork inside, cogs and little mechanisms.

“Porthos is a robot,” Aramis whispers.

“No, no, it's just a visual for me, nothing to do with what's really there,” Father says.

He holds his hand palm down over Porthos' clock brain, then twists. Loops of wire rise up, building outside the skull, trailing over the bed. Father turns his hand this way and that, unravelling the mechanism, spools of wire, cogs, tiny pieces of metal hover in the air, strewn across the sheets, emptying out of Porthos' head. There are chimes, too, and ticking.

“There we go,” Father says, softly. “The Gentleman isn't here right now, but look at this.”

He jerks his hand up, and golden curls of hair spill everywhere. Something small is wrapped entirely in the blond hair, the strands twisting and coiling over and over. Father moves his fingers in the same pattern, repeated, and the curls unravel. Eventually the object is uncovered. It's a small trembling moth, wings fluttering, alive. Father breathes out.

“This one is beautiful. Here we go. This is incredible. Here is why Sunshine children love the Gentles, even when no one else can. This is what they find, that no one else sees. This small piece of a soul. This one's very lovely, look at all this kindness.”

“It's the victim,” Athos says. “The Gentleman's victim.”

“Or victims,” Father says. “Mm. This is just one, I think. Just one fragment. They become corrupted eventually, living within a Gentle. Only the very strong survive. Sometimes one is strong enough to corrupt the Gentle, and we get the Shushura.”

“He means Ladies,” Françoise says, smiling. “Shushura are Ladies.”

“Until then, though, they are part of their Gentle, and act as a conduit and connection. Or can do. This is a very strange protection spell,” Father says, fingers twisting and turning to re-wrap the moth in the hair. “Old magic.”

“A poltergeist,” Athos says, with a sigh.

“That makes sense,” Father says. “Though I can't see why a Poltergeist would. There's no way to bribe one, or pay one. They don't want anything.”

“This one wanted to be Porthos' friend, and he allowed it. He likes it,” Aramis says. “We always thought that was just a Bright thing.”

“Attraction and affinity, yes, but friendship? No, that is all this Porthos,” Father says.

“Why are you putting it back?” d'Artagnan asks. “Can't you just keep it out, so the Gentleman can't get back into his head?”

“This isn't real, sky child. It is merely an illusion,” Father says. “I cannot extract a Gentleman. Oh no. It was this boy's choice, I cannot take that from her. It would do much damage. I cannot find the connection with the other souls here, though. The ones causing pain. It is not in her head.”

Father re-pracks the mechanics back into Porthos, hands moving like a puppeteer and then a pianist, head tilted to one side. When everything's inside there's a chime, and Father moves his finger just a small bit and makes the chime repeat, over and over until it hits just the right note. Then he runs the knife back over the incisions he made, and Porthos' skin re-knits.

Father repeats the entire process, opening up Porthos' chest, his rib cage, all the way down to his sternum. He chuckles over what he finds in Porthos' stomach, plucking wires to make them thrum. He frowns when he reaches Porthos' heart, though. The steady tick tock of the clock is off, a pause every now and then, a rush, a chime. Father's nimble fingers twist and turn, pulling out the machine, the batteries there, the plate of metal. There's a flutter, suddenly, and a whole swarm of butterflies come flying out, more and more.

“Oops,” Father says. “Your boy is very generous. She's welcomed a lot of people into her life. Ah, here you are, sky child.”

A very small moth comes fluttering out, clumsy, wings brightly coloured. Françoise laughs as the moth settles on her hand and stays there. d'Artagnan blushes.

“It's not you, not really,” Father says. “Of course. It's just her impression of you. I believe her mother was important to her. Don't worry about it. Now, let's see. Who's hiding away back there?”

His fingers move sharply, and a few little moths come flitting out, then a great large, purple butterfly comes out, but stays close to Porthos, resting on his cheek, wings trembling.

“A Purple Emperor. Beautiful, I haven't seen one in so long. They used to be everywhere,” Father says, smiling at Athos. Athos glares.

Father's fingers do another sharp staccato pattern, and an orange butterfly appears, crawling out of Porthos' chest. It's a foot across, giant, wings trembling. It's face and legs are to scale, as well, the entire thing is enormous. It crawls out and sits, fat and still, right over Porthos' heart. Aramis shrieks and stumbles away. d'Artagnan shudders, but he's curious. It's so big.

“Attacus Atlas,” Father murmurs. “Ah, here we are. This is the problem, I think.”

“Is that a real butterfly?” Athos asks, voice hoarse.

“No. It's a moth, and an illusion,” Father snaps. “Atlas Moths are that big, though. Look at that beauty. This is the painful one. It needs too much, and has too much control. It is beautiful, though, I can see why she doesn't want to let it go. This child has born a lot of pain, usually for other people. She still has a lot of kindness, though. I think that plume moth might be your white lady.”

Father waves his hand, and the moths and butterflies creep and flutter back in. The Atlas moth sits, not moving.

“Which is the Plume one?” Athos asks.

“This here,” Father says, flicking his wrist and sending a white moth back up into the air. It has multiple wings, or maybe not. The wings are so fine, but there are lines, sections. It looks like it's made of dust. “I think Atlas is going to go last. Sit on the top. Very well, that will make little difference.”

His fingers start their tune again, and he hums along cheerfully, repacking all Porthos' bits and pieces and putting his skin back. When he's done he mutters a few words, and Porthos wakes up, blinking slowly back to consciousness. d'Artagnan tenses, but there's no screaming. Just a confused look around.

“How's the pain?” Athos asks, kneeling at Porthos' head, stroking through his hair again.

“Same,” Porthos whispers, trying to turn onto his side to face Athos. He needs Athos and d'Artagnans help to manage it. “What happened?”

“You started screaming,” Athos says. “The man d'Artagnan found to help says the Gentleman has something inside you and is making you think things and talking to you.”

“I tol' you the radiators were muttering,” Porthos says.

“Yes you did. Father, we need to get this done in a way that won't tip the Gentleman off that we know. It can't know.”

“Let's leave it, then,” Father says. “It won't do any harm if you manage to break it's tie with this moths owner.”

Athos explains about the moths to Porthos. Porthos shudders when Athos describes the size of the Atlas.

“Ew. There were giant moths in me chest? A foot long? With, like, giant arms and legs and feelers, too?” Porthos asks, waving his hands in a 'feelers' motion.

“Yep,” Athos says, sounding amused. “He's not keen on bugs. Don't worry, it wasn't real.”

“What was it?”

“Illusion,” Father says. “Or did you mean what did it represent? You tell me you banished a Fury. I would guess, and it is an educated guess so it's probably right, that the Atlas was the soul which created the Fury. That take a lot of strength, a lot of power, and a lot of pain.”

“She was a slave,” Porthos whispers.

“Yes, that's why I asked about the way you were moving. Ginger's potion made it hurt less, didn't it? Yes. I think you're probably carrying that pain. The fragment is strong, and along with the Gentleman and the scratch and the other things going on- the Fairies and white ladies and Dark Shades, it is overpowering you. I think it got knitted in with you when the white lady tried to make itself one with your bones and blood and life. You are going to have to let it go.”

“Okay,” Porthos says, voice quiet and tired. “I didn' know I was holdin' on.”

“I have to have your permission to remove the soul. That will help a lot with the pain, and I'll do something about the mess the fairies made, too. That should set you on the path to recovery.”

“I give you my permission,” Porthos says.

“I wish it were that simple. It's not your conscious self that's chosen to take this fragment in and house it. If I remove the fragment now, when part of you wants to keep it close, I will hurt you. What I'm going to do is put you to sleep in a way. It's a little like a trance, a little like being high. It will allow me access to the part of you I need permission from.”

Father gets up and pulls out bundles of herbs and grass and leaves, mixing them in a bowl with a dry, brown powder. He brings the whole thing to Porthos' head, pushes his hand towards the bowl. It fills slowly with water, and Father mutters, until it starts to steam. He has Porthos breathe it in. Porthos goes all limp and giggly, then his face goes slack and he stares at the ceiling.

“Alright,” Father says. “This will only take a minute.”

He closes his eyes and rocks the way Aramis does, head tilting one way then another in his strange, bird-like manner. He hums, and it gets louder, sounding more and more like the sea against the shore. Then it dims, and he opens his eyes, smiling.

“She let go,” Father says. “That's excellent. We can now extract what's left of the poor woman who was enslaved. You humans make me so angry, sometimes.”

“Will it hurt him?” Athos asks, looking down at Porthos' limp body, his gormless stare, his lax mouth.

“Nope, shouldn't hurt a bit. I'm lying of course, but it will hurt much less than everything else,” Father says, going back to his suitcase.

He starts pulling out little jars and shaking them, murmuring, filling the air with spices. It make Aramis sneeze his head off, until Father gets annoyed and douses him in water. It remains, a sort of sheen around Aramis, the rest of the air thick with the brown, red and burnt ochre of the spice-dust. The murmur of Father's voice fills the space. The spices start to vibrate, the air vibrating with them, growing warmer. The spices deepen in colour, turning brighter, bolder, gold diffusing them.

“A conduit,” Athos whispers to d'Artagnan, voice tight, teeth gritted.

Father's voice stops, suddenly, and the air it thick, heavy, still. Then Porthos gasps, arching off the bed, pulling in great breaths, inhaling the spice out of the air. He coughs and groans and shivers, body twisting, hands tearing at the covers around him. He inhales most of the spice, and then the voice starts up again. Porthos coughs and coughs and coughs, breath coming fast and desperate.

Then there's a gust of wind, and Porthos goes limp, a long, slow, relieved exhale sending little clouds of spice up into the air. Porthos sucks in a breath and then exhales again. Again and again, the spice covering all the surfaces, covering all of them. Then Porthos pushes out a last, harsh breath, coughs a little, and goes still. His mouth is open, and a cloud rises out from between his lips, like cigarette smoke.

It's dark, almost black, but there are so many shades of grey, and a deep, beautiful line of silver sometimes flashing visible, like a seam of something precious in a rock face. The smoke rises, and then Father waves his arm in a great sweeping gesture, and the spice and the cloud puff up into the air. The spices pour themselves neatly back into their jars, the smoke pours into a small black box, and then it's over.

“That went well,” Father says, satisfaction comfortable in his voice. “Now for those pesky fairies. Let's see the damage they've done.”

He picks up a small box, then pauses.

“Doesn't like bugs, you say?” Father says. “Perhaps we will try something… but this is most effective. I think we better put her back to sleep, Ginger.”

Françoise steps forward and presses her palm to Porthos' forehead again, and his eyes close, body going yet more limp. Athos makes a stifled, anxious little sound and gets up onto the bed, cradling Porthos' head in his lap, stroking his forehead and cheek. Porthos doesn't stir.

“He's just resting,” Françoise assures, gently.

“I know,” Athos says.

Father kneels by Porthos' head, and opens the box. There's a creature inside. Or it looks like a creature. It's a long, thin body, soft looking, with lot of very fine legs waving in the air. Father uses alcohol and a scalpel to make a small incision just above Porthos' breast bone, then pushes the creature into it. There is blood, this time, running over Porthos, over Father's hand.

“I'm sorry about this,” Father says. “The fairies don't like me playing with their toys, so I have to find ways around them. They cannot imagine this, so they don't guard against it. They like beauty, or destruction, not this kind of sordid little animal.”

There's a bump under Porthos' skin where the creature settles. Father presses his thumb gently behind and whispers, and the bump moves, a scuttling movement as it runs over Porthos' body. Father shuts his eyes.

“God that's disgusting,” Aramis says, leaning over to get a better look. “Eurgh.”

d'Artagnan has to agree. If Porthos doesn't like bugs, this is going to really freak him out. A fake giant moth is one thing, but a real squishy centipede thing is quite another. The animal wriggles deeper, and the movement under the skin stops. Father hums again, head tilting one way, another, back and forth. Then his eyes fly open, and yanks his hand through the air. The animal comes shooting out of the incision. It's soft body is engorged and pulsating with Porthos' blood.

“They get hungry sometimes,” Father says, shutting the lid firmly. “Technically, they could eat an entire person, inside out.”

“That could have been mentioned before you jammed one inside Porthos?!” Aramis exclaims, looking horrified.

“Wouldn't have helped you to know. I found the problem, anyway. It shouldn't be a problem. They left vestiges, very sloppy.”

“He knows the people they tried to steal memories of post mortem,” Athos says.

“Ah,” Father says, smiling. “That is easy, then. Have her see one of them, and hey presto! She should be fine.”

“We thought it might make it worse,” Athos admits.

“No, no. That should fix her right up. Now, I think that is all. I have some paperwork, then you pay me, and then we're wrapped up nicely,” Father says.

Aramis deals with the formalities, only passing things to Athos when they need his signature. Then it's over, and Father is leaving. Françoise hovers, clearly wanting to stay, but d'Artagnan can't bring himself to invite her. Can't bring himself to do anything except sit and look at Porthos and nothing else.

“Goodbye d'Artagnan,” Françoise says, hesitating again to leave.

“Will he wake up?” Athos asks, suddenly, anxiously petting Porthos' hair.

“I can wake him before I leave, if you wish.”

“Yes. Just to check,” Athos says.

Françoise nods and replaces her hand on Porthos' forehead. He starts to wake, and d'Artagnan ignores his mother. Aramis leads her out, and their voices can be heard, quiet in the hall, but then the front door shuts and she's gone. Porthos breathes deeply, opens his eyes, and sighs.

“That's better,” he whispers.

“The pain's gone?” Athos asks.

“Not entirely, but I can breathe, and I can think, and it doesn't feel like I'm shattering any more,” Porthos whispers. “I'm tired.”

“You can rest,” Athos says. “I'm going to stay with him, d'Artagnan. Can you and Aramis talk to Anne and work out what happens next? Tell her Porthos will be ready by tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” d'Artagnan asks, examining Porthos' exhausted face.

“Yes.”

d'Artagnan goes out to find Aramis.

Superintendent Royal is not particularly happy with d'Artagnan for telling the others. Constance backs him up, though, and when d'Artagnan tells them about Porthos saying it was a matter of trust, SP Royal moves on. The plan, they decide, will stay the same, but Aramis and Athos will have a fight later in the week. They decide Sunday for the funeral, Sundays being strange days for phenomena.


	12. Chapter 12

They're all quiet, in the car, on the way to the church yard. It's not raining, which d'Artagnan feels it should be. Porthos is thrumming with distress already, even with Aramis trying to help him with positive reminders and emotions, and d'Artagnan trying to balance him out.

 

“I can't do this,” Porthos says, when Aramis parks. “I can't do it.”

 

“You don't have to,” Aramis says, soothingly. “If you want to stay in the car, that's fine.”

 

d'Artagnan keeps quiet. The plan falling apart doesn't seem important. When Aramis and Athos fought, Porthos had been yelling. It was at the station, and Porthos had been yelling, and then Athos had gone down and there had been a surge and spark and Porthos had been yelling and yelling Athos' name, then he'd been sobbing, and he'd been white as a sheet.

 

_ “God, Aramis,” Porthos had whispered. “You were just supposed to pretend. This was supposed to be pretend. What have you done?” _

 

_ “I just pushed him,” Aramis had said, standing with his arms hanging loose, looking horrified. “What do you mean?” _

 

_ “He's bleeding,” d'Artagnan had said. “I'll call an ambulance.” _

 

_ “There's no point,” Porthos said, hoarse and wrecked, gathering Athos' body into his arms. “There's no point. Aramis has killed him.” _

 

_ One of the uniformed officers who came to watch the show had handcuffed Aramis. Porthos had been glued to Athos, keening, saying 'you killed him' over and over like a broken record. Everyone had felt his grief, his terror, his anger. d'Artagnan chased the officers to tell them about Aramis suddenly having more power, about how healing could be reversed, how it was an accident. _

 

_ SP Royal had called the people involved in the plan into the office, and told them that after the accident, they'd leave it for another day. Porthos had been unable to stay in the room more than ten minutes, and they'd found him out in the hall, having a panic attack. _

 

_ “It went wrong?” Milady had asked, uncertain. “This wasn't the plan? This isn't just to persuade me?” _

 

_ “No,” d'Artagnan had said, as Aramis lead Porthos away. “No, we were just going to have them fight. He wasn't meant to die. Aramis wasn't meant to be able to do that. It's my fault, it's because of me. Because I'm a Sky Lark.” _

 

Porthos gets out of the car. He has a crutch, because even now it hurts him to walk. He moves slowly, the hand not using his crutch clutching Aramis' arm. d'Artagnan walks on the other side, resting a hand on Porthos' back. He can feel the steady thrum of Aramis' power. Over that, over everything, he can feel awful, wrenching, desperate grief. Porthos' grief. They reach the church and walk in, then Porthos stops.

 

“I can't talk to people,” he whispers. “Can I sit down?”

 

Aramis leads him to the front and helps him ease into one of the chairs there. Athos' coffin is set up at the front, covered in flowers. There are so many flowers. d'Artagnan acts as interceptor and guard, keeping the many well wishers away from Porthos, accepting condolences on his and Aramis' behalf. Most of the station has turned up.

 

Ninon comes and hugs him, and says how sorry she is, and then bursts into tears, walking quickly away. Constance comes and stands at d'Artagnan's side, shoulder to shoulder, helping him. Bearing him up. Bracing him. Waves of sorrow and pain are emanating from Porthos. People have started to avoid him on their own.

 

Milady comes in, and people part to let her through. She's dressed in smart black trousers and top, a jacket over it, heels. She looks stylish and beautiful, and there's power to her that everyone can feel. She walks up to d'Artagnan, then shakes her head. She looks shocked and exhausted, terrified.

 

“This was my idea,” She whispers. “My fault. I killed him.”

 

“You all want the credit,” Constance says, gently. “None of you did it. It was an accident. Not the fault of d'Artagnan's new Ability, or Aramis' new power, or their lack of control, or your idea. It was just an accident. Or we could blame the Gentleman, for the fight at least.”

 

“It's here,” Milady says, miserably. “The cat's sat there out on the steps. It can't come into a church, but it's there. Hasn't it got what it wanted?”

 

“It'll feed off the despair of this,” Constance says. “Porthos is endless, really. A bottomless well of-”

 

Constance sighs, rubbing her face. Milady moves off, sitting in the front pew. Porthos doubles over his lap, covering his mouth, stifling his crying. It makes little difference, everyone can feel it anyway.

 

The service is short. It gets cut shorter, because Porthos is looking very, very pale, and the church is vibrating with his unhappiness. People still start to leave early, unable to bear it. Shared pain is not, after all, halved. The priest speaks directly to Porthos when addressing 'family', without being prompted, without pausing.

 

The possession out to the freshly dug grave is silent. Porthos leads, Aramis on one side, Samara on the other, Milady, d'Artagnan and Constance behind. He moves slowly, carefully, taking deep, tentative breaths, pausing every few yards to shudder and send out another awful wave of distress. The coffin is lowered into the earth, and Porthos drops a shaking handful of earth onto the coffin lids before almost falling in after it, caught by Aramis and Samara, who have to stay there, holding him up. Porthos gasps for breath, sobs tearing out of him, Athos' name whispering between his lips.

 

“Oh God, it's real,” Milady says, suddenly, stepping forward.

 

They all feel it. Her magic is so close to the surface, reaching for information, tiny spells tripping off her fingers without her realising. Constance and d'Artagnan are already moving, Samara also, letting Porthos' weight rest entirely on Aramis. They sink to the ground, d'Artagnan sees out of the corner of his eye, even as he focuses elsewhere.

 

The cat's just sat, at the back of the crowd. It suddenly makes an angry hissing, mewling as if someone's pulled it's tail, and dashes off into the undergrowth. The air where it had been coalesces into a Gentleman. d'Artagnan's not sure what he expected, a man in black with a top hat or Thomas in ghost-form, like Treville, or something else, but it wasn't what actually appears.

 

A Gentleman is not humanoid. There is no face, no eyes, no arms or legs. It's tall, upright, a weaving of bright lights. No darkness at all. It seems to move between forms, a person sometimes almost visible. They circle it, each holding up their mirror. Marguerite steps out of the crowd, dropping two sun-light globes, glass shattering. Theroux comes from the other side, drawing water out of the air, making everything feel damp. The sunlight reflects back and forth from mirror to mirror turning the Gentleman into a prism. Then Theroux sets the air on fire.

 

Superintendent Royal, in a skirt and a practical t-shirt and jacket, hair tied back, turns out of the crowd she was in and strides forward, drawing a willow branch which she pulls through the air, words falling off her tongue, eyes burning brighter and brighter. Samara, from the other side of the circle, joins in the chant, and Constance does something with her mobile phone that traps the fire and the Gentleman into a prism.

 

The willow comes down with a crack, and the prism shatters, dark smoke filling the graveyard. No one can see anything, and then the screaming starts. d'Artagnan thinks it's Porthos for a moment, and runs in the direction he remembers, but it isn't Porthos. It's no one. It's just the air, like it's too tight, and then there's a pop and the dark disperses. d'Artagnan stops just before he ploughs right into Aramis and Porthos.

 

Aramis has Porthos cradled against his chest, sitting on the ground. He looks up at d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan kneels to put his hand on Aramis' neck and Aramis thrums with power, then shakes his head.

 

“We need to get him to Athos,” Aramis whispers. “I don't know whether he's just upset, or whether the grief was too much, or if the Gentleman… but he's unresponsive.”

 

“I'm not,” Porthos whispers. “Milly needs help. Everyone's so unhappy.”

 

“Shall we go to Athos, hmm?” d'Artagnan says, getting up, pulling Porthos after him with Aramis' help.

 

Porthos nods, and they stagger back to the car, leaving the clean up to someone, anyone else. Porthos is silent the entire way out to Reigate, head resting on the window, eyes closed. Tears leaking over his cheeks. They heave him into the house, hanging between them, legs not working properly. Athos is waiting in the hall and Porthos stands up, wrapping himself around Athos.

 

d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief as the grief and terror that have been oppressing his mind all day, for the past three days, since the fight, lifts a little. Aramis looks relieved, too, and they exchange a grimace.

 

“Hush, hush, I'm right here, love,” Athos says. “I'm right here. Can you two give us a moment, please? Shh. It's going to be alright now.”

 

They go, but only to the end of the hall, both unable to go further. They turn and watch Athos slide down the wall, Porthos curling against his chest. Athos croons to him, resting his cheek on Porthos' head. He's so tender, so warm, so loving.

 

“Shh, shh, my dear Porthos. I'm right here, my love. Darling, darling,” Athos says, the litany of endearments falling easily from him.

 

They slip into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and drown it out. It's too intensely private, so very much not for them. They sit on the counter, side by side, and wait for their tea to brew. When they've each got a mug, Aramis nudges him, a smile breaking across his face. d'Artagnan realises that Aramis hasn't smiled since the fight, and smiles widely back.

 

“So?” Aramis says.

 

“So… what?” d'Artagnan asks, grinning.

 

“Back to Ninon on Monday?”

 

“I don't know,” d'Artagnan says, surprised. He'd forgotten all about that. “I wonder if she'll forgive me for letting her think Athos had died?”

 

“I wonder if Milady will forgive any of us. I wonder if she'll forgive me repeatedly calling her 'Anna' just to annoy her.”

 

“Was that the Gentleman, too?”

 

“I'm a bit of a twat, and can be offensive, but I'm not that awful. Charlie.”

 

“Please, please don't,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“It suits you, you know,” Aramis says, pushing the hair off d'Artagnan's face. “I won't use it if you don't want me to, of course. But it might be nice, one day, to remember that we do know it. We know who you are, Charles Jonathan d'Artagnan, and you will always have a home with us.”

 

“I might decide to stay.”

 

“I think you'll take some time off, and go visit your mother. I think you will take time to grieve for your father. And then you will go back to working with Ninon, and you will ask to change mentors. Milady will be a good mentor, especially for you. You need the time away from us, I think.”

 

“I do like you all.”

 

“Yes, well, good, because we love you.”

 

“Constance is going to come and collect me, tomorrow morning. We're going to my father's farm, to visit the grave and make sure it's all alright there, and then we're going to rent the farm to the man who currently keeps it ticking over for me. Then we're going to my mother's.”

 

“Yes. I am such a good guesser.”

 

They sip their tea, and talk a bit about Alexander d'Artagnan, and street work, and being a copper. They don't talk about Dark Shades or Gentlemen, they don't talk about grief or death or anger. They don't talk about cats. They make dinner, eventually, and the smell of the pasta sauce and garlic bread brings Athos and Porthos in. Porthos is still pale and moves like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he manages a smile.

 

He hugs them both, longer than is necessary, holding on to them, clinging just a little. Neither of them say anything. Athos comes to rescue Aramis from Porthos' strangle-hold after ten minutes. d'Artagnan takes his wrist and Athos smiles, knuckles resting on Porthos' cheek. d'Artagnan feels loved and cherished, warm and safe, and realises it's Athos, helping Porthos but helping the rest of them just as much. They all smile at each other, exhausted, drained. Relieved. Safe. Together.

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“You never told me he was such a trouble magnet!” Milady says, storming into the Inseparables' office.

 

d'Artagnan follows her, grinning widely. He's in uniform still, and there's blood on his shirt (not his) and on his trousers (his, but only a bit) and mud everywhere else. Porthos is stood in the middle of the room beaming and vibrating with energy, waiting for d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan had felt him from downstairs and knows Porthos knew exactly when he entered the building.

 

“Look at the state of you!” Porthos crows, delighted, turning d'Artagnan this way and that to take it in.

 

“That bloody cat's back,” Aramis says, wandering in with two plates of cake. “Oh, d'Art my darling. You're here. Are you visiting us? I didn't get enough cake.”

 

“He can have one 'a mine,” Porthos says, taking both plates from Aramis and shoving one at d'Artagnan. Then he hesitates. “Just, let me have a taste, first.”

 

He takes a forkful, shoving it into his mouth, then hands the plate over. Aramis rolls his eyes but doesn't protest, so d'Artagnan sits to eat his cake.

 

“Where's Athos?” he asks, around a mouthful.

 

“Wait,” Milady says. “I came here to complain, not visit.”

 

“We don't have a complaints department,” Porthos says. “Did you says 'rico's back, 'mis?”

 

“He's sat at the top of the stairs,” d'Artagnan says, around another bite. “Good cake. Athos?”

 

“Huh?” Porthos says, darting out of the office, probably to scoop the cat up.

 

No one wants to call the cat anything, anymore. Except Porthos, who doesn't care that the cat was out to get him and loves it anyway. So the cat's now officially Federico Garcia Lorca, though no one at all calls it that. Most people call it 'that bloody cat'. Porthos calls it Rico.

 

“Where's Athos?” d'Artagnan asks, when Porthos returns, cat firmly ensconced in his arms, purring wildly.

 

“Oh, grumping away the afternoon somewhere,” Porthos says, shrugging.

 

“He's napping in the fifties National Geographics room,” Aramis says. “He's hanging.”

 

Porthos grins, nodding. d'Artagnan, spotting Porthos' cake left unattended on the desk, snatches it and shoves it into his mouth as fast as he can. Porthos makes a betrayed, wounded sound, and sends him an incredibly pathetic look. d'Artagnan can feel his amusement and fondness, though, so it has no effect whatsoever. Then a wave of tiredness. d'Artagnan gets up and shoves Porthos into the chair instead.

 

He's better, almost entirely healed, but he gets tired, sometimes. d'Artagnan has been back on the job for two months, now, and he's used to Porthos sometimes passing out when he forgets he needs more rest than he used to. Porthos is getting better at managing it, so it's happening less and less. d'Artagnan doesn't want to get crushed by Porthos falling on top of him, though, so he usually gets Porthos sat down quickly.

 

“Curl up in the window seat with your bloody cat,” Aramis says, sighing. “I will do the work of an entire department by my lonesome. Unless you want to stay and help, d'Art?”

 

d'Artagnan looks at the empty plates, looks at Milady, who's waiting patiently, lips quirked in amusement.

 

“Nah,” d'Artagnan says. “Milly's buying the drinks tonight, because she bet Ninon that I wouldn't be able to beat a little tiny river spirit. Um, by the way, there's a much bigger, angrier river spirit who might cause you some problems. We just popped along to report that. I may have just enforced the law on this riving spirit's little sister.”

 

“Enforced the law?” Porthos asks, pausing halfway to the window seat.

 

“I did warn her that trying to drown her boyfriend was just not on, even if he had cheated on her. More than once. But then, see, I'm a man, and he's a man, and to a little river spirit we're more or less interchangeable. We rang Milady to come help us out, but she and Ninon got a bit carried away, and then there was the bet, and Ninon did a hostage exchange- the boyfriend for me. I didn't get drowned in mud! Woo! I handcuffed a river spirit and took her down to the station for question. Not so woo because now, as I said, her sister's mad. There, information delivered. Bye!”

 

He scarpers before they can get annoyed, Milady on his heels. Drink turns into _ drinks _ , and before d'Artagnan knows it, he's drunk. Constance is there, and Ninon, and Milady. Samara shows up to get Milady and they snog for a while, which inspires d'Artagnan to snog Constance too. Ninon goes home in disgust. The rest of them go home in various states of inebriated horniness.

 

In the morning, when all they want to do is sleep, all three Musketeers show up, grinning, wearing waders and carrying children's fishing nets. d'Artagnan groans, tells them to go away, and nearly succeeds in closing them out of the flat. Porthos, being the sneaky bugger he is, pretends to be tired, and d'Artagnan has to let them in, then, because Porthos collapsing on his doorstep would not be good.

 

It fast becomes clear that Porthos is not, after all, tired. He bounces around the flat, touching everything, bellowing with laughter at things, pulling books off the shelf to examine. Constance comes out, hair a bird's nest, and glowers him into vague submission. He stills, vibrating on the spot. Athos has gone to make coffee, and Aramis has made himself at home on the sofa, with a fishing magazine.

 

“We're going after your river spirit,” Porthos says. “You're coming with us.”

 

“I'm not,” d'Artagnan says.

 

For one thing, he's wearing nothing but his pants and his slippers. For another, Constance is looking adorable and _ she's _ wearing nothing but his pants and his slippers, too. And a dressing gown, but he knows, is the thing. He gets distracted by her thighs, and before he knows it he's dressed in waders, with a net, carrying a flask of coffee, a cooler full of food, and a portable radio down the bank of the Thames.

 

“How did this happen?” he asks, sitting morosely on a three legged, canvas stool. The other three have proper camping chairs.

 

“We're just that good,” Porthos says.

 

“We bribed Connie,” Aramis says.

 

“We drugged your coffee,” Athos says.

 

d'Artagnan sulks for half an hour, then Porthos gives him a tuna fish sandwich and a chocolate bar.

 

“We haven't worked together with you in ages,” Aramis says, giving him a fresh mug of coffee.

 

“We decided bumbling incompetence was perfect for this job,” Athos says, giving him crisps and a doughnut.

 

d'Artagnan feels appeased, and they're nice to him the rest of the afternoon, making him cheerful and happy. And then the river spirit turns up and d'Artagnan realises that, according the Musketeers, this is going to be a spectator sport. For them, not for d'Artagnan. They call encouragement and tips, but they let the damned woman beat him soundly.

 

“She's my baby sister you good for nothing human! Our Mum left when we were tiny! It's just us! I thought she was in real trouble! You didn't stop to check if she had family! Stupid, stupid, stupid!” The spirit yells.

 

“My mum left too,” d'Artagnan admits, fighting her off.

 

She's hitting him with a trout.

 

“Poor you, I don't care!” she yells, renewing her hitting.

 

“She's a Seal- Woman, so am I!” d'Artagnan says. “I'm not human!”

 

“Really? Our Mum was a Selkie. Our Dad told us that Sea people don't stick around, they can't. Too restless.”

 

“Yeah, that's what my father told me,” d'Artagnan says.

 

The fish is no longer hitting him around the head, and the sparks of magic that had been building fade. d'Artagnan feels Porthos relax, and realises he was never on his own after all.

 

“Yeah. Next time, check there's not family? Your guv should have known.”

 

“She's not Sensitive,” d'Artagnan says. “She doesn't usually deal with Supernatural cases.”

 

“Very well, forgiveness is yours. Now, pay me for this fish,” she says. d'Artagnan gives her an incredulous look. “What? It's not like I can sell it, now. Pay up.”

 

d'Artagnan gives her money, and his name, and she tells him she's Planchet. Porthos gets up and limps over to stand one side, Aramis coming to the other. They grin and clap him on the shoulder. Each shoulder. Then they swap shoulders. d'Artagnan turns to Athos, who's giving Porthos a critical once over. He visibly dismisses Porthos' limp and focuses on d'Artagnan, smiling.

 

“Well, congratulations, pup,” Athos says. “You've landed your very first contact.”

 

“I have?” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Skilfully negotiated,” Aramis says.

 

“I particularly like you lettin' her hit you with the fish. Made 'er feel like she had the power,” Porthos said. “Plus, we got to watch her hittin' you with a fish. I really want fish and chips, now.”

 

“We might have to change our boots,” Aramis says.

 

He and Porthos walk to the car arm in arm, Porthos' limp coming and going, as it does, debating the issue. Athos helps d'Artagnan carry their things back, a steady, pleased presence.

 

“I'm still not working with you,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Good,” Athos says. “Two years on the beat, minimum. That'll get you shaped up a bit.”

 

“You know that I'm working with DI de Winter, DCI Alaman, Inspector Larroque, and MCI Bonacieux, four of the most powerful people on the force. Maybe I'll just stay where I am.”

 

“You hardly ever get to work with 'mara,” Porthos says. “Officially.”

 

“She takes me out all the time,” d'Artagnan says. “She's still trying to steal me as her assistant so she can study me.”

 

“You'd never leave us,” Aramis says, slinging his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. d'Artagnan shrugs.

 

He never makes a promise, and it's three years rather than two before he finds his way to the Musketeers office for good, but he does spend a lot of time there, and they do work together a lot, so by the time he officially works there, it's mere formalities. Rico never leaves.

 

Porthos never changes. He walks around the station with a mini Shirley Temple on his shoulders, her ringlets blond as ever, her skin several shades darker, closer to Porthos'. Athos makes coffee so strong it makes your teeth hurt, loves Porthos in his very quiet restrained way, loves Aramis and d'Artagnan with a little less restraint, without the complication of romance to confuse the issue, and writes a book about Dark Shades. Aramis gets two Phds, then deserts them and becomes a priest. They find him three months later, working his way through churches and cathedrals, dressed in skin tight black, kitted out, playing ghostbuster. They drag him home.

  
  


 


	14. Glossary

 

 **Magic has its roots in culture, language, and time. The magic mentioned in the story is Western, primarily English, the language is English, and the time is 20/21st century.** Below are some of the terms and phenomena that the century and language have created or named. 

 

  1. Phenomena 
  2. Magical Peoples
  3. Abilties
  4. Police structures
  5. Spells
  6. General terms



  
  


**1 Phenomena** : any supernatural manifestation.

 

Imprint: any imprint of emotion left behind. This is an umbrella term, very wide. Anything at all. Ghosts, poltergiests, snow angels.

 

Fragment: like an imprint, but more solid. Usually something that has a physical manifestation. 

 

Ghosts: bits of fragmented soul that just hang around.

 

Poltergeists: ghosts, but of souls that were fragmented through an angry or violent act. Poltergeists are sometimes considered a ‘people’, rather than a phenomena, because they have a long life and are often individual, with thoughts and feelings. However, because of their creation, and because they are technically fragments, we categorize them here. 

 

Snow angels: manifest as beauty to those who are Sensitive enough. Enchant whoever looks into their eyes to 'dance', which is really just standing in the cold until you die. They make the air colder and colder. They draw power from their victims. They also seem to draw their aim from their victim. Until they have someone, they are harmless. Can be detected by gold 'splinters' in the eye, and flushed out with solution B, a powerful spell. They are believed to be an imprint, though there is little known about them so that is more guess than fact. The theory is that they are some kind of frozen fragment.

 

Nightflyers: several fragments of different souls bound together by Magi magic, usually destructive, but fairly harmless. Usually manifest at night. Used as guard dogs.

 

Gentlemen: dark souls. The larger the fragment, the darker the manifestation. The soul that becomes a gentleman usually belongs to someone who commits atrocities. They follow victims around, sometimes. They hang around and permeate their immediate environ with despair.

 

Ladies: The inverse of a gentleman. Usually the soul of a person who does something extraordinary. Usually kindness, though, rarely, you'll get a Red Lady, who is created from a soul that was extraordinarily courageous.   
  


Snow shadows: an emotion that's been caught in the snow. As the snow melts, the emotion will attach itself to by-passers. A snow shadow has only one 'life'- once it has attached to a person, it will fizzle away.

 

Sun Sprite: like a snow shadow, but the emotion is concentrated, and prolonged. Movement is usually described as brushing rather than attaching, sun sprites flit person to person. Depending on their strength, it is difficult to judge their reach. In 1998 William Kemper did a study which showed a sprite affecting three thousand people.

 

Dust sprites: emotion caught in dust, like snow shadows, but concentrated and prolonged, like sun sprites. Dust sprites tend to lie dormant until disturbed by vibrations, then they like to animate inanimate objects and irritate people. 

 

Dark shade: a fragment created by a cruel or terrible act, often mixed with dark magic. They knit with other phenomena, have a relationship with the victims’ phenomena, and are very versatile in the way they manifest. 

 

Sheet shade: your typical, white, Casper ghost. Pretty harmless, just an empty spirit without any motivation, hanging around. Usually disperse quickly. 

 

Fragma-plasma: similar to a sheet shade, but made up of more than one fragment of a person, giving them a little more solidity. Sometimes fragma-plasma speak or move around under their own motivation. 

 

**2 Magical Peoples:** there are many ‘types’ of creatures who do not technically class as human, and are not animal. Many of these have cultures, communities, histories, languages. Some peoples have as many diverse cultures as humans. 

 

Sea Creatures: any magical people who live or base their lives around water. 

Seal Women: misgendered by sailors who were seduced,Seal Women refers to all genders. Also known as ‘whores of the sea’. Seal Women are long lived, sensual people, long for water, are generally restless. Their culture is nomadic and fragmented, their histories largely aural. Often manifest strange abilities. When mixed with human DNA, the human strain is often dominant, but manifested abilities tend toward strange, still. They value health and are great healers.

 

Nymphs: An ancient, slow moving people, who live through centuries. Good at adapting to change, though slow to do so. Their societies strongly value intelligence and community. 

 

Selkies: selkies can change their skin, to look human or seal. They tend to live primarily as one or the other, allowing their minds and reflexes to adapt to one kind of life. They prefer the water, and when they live as humans, they will need to be close to it.    
  


River Spirit: humanoids who are less corporeal than most creatures, live primarily in the water, and are often mistaken for phenomena rather than peoples, due to their abilities. They have great influence over water and weather. Some live among people, and most have at least an existence on land. 

 

Magi: a trained magic user. Every Magi has a university degree and most have considerable post-grad. These are the guys who come up with the spells and potions, who work out how magic works, who work out how manifestations are created and so they can be dispersed.

  
  


Witches: uneducated magic users. It is illegal in Britain to be a witch, as of the 1910 Magic Use Act. Under the age of eighteen, university age, witchcraft is allowed as long as the witch is registered and part of a school or club.

 

Hedgewitches: someone who practices magic up until eighteen but then doesn't pursue it

 

Sorcerers: are Magi who have used dark magic, which is illegal. Sorcery is also illegal, as of the 1752 Witch Burning Covenant.

  
Furies: souls that live and die in agony, with no respite. They are souls who demand justice for a life lost. 

 

Ghouls: don’t interact with the human world much, refuse to make any kind of agreement or pact to live alongside other peoples. They do their own thing, and care little about others. They tend to be lone, not community focused. Not much is known about them, but they have been known to grown attached to locations.

 

Faeries: the Fae, the Sidhe. They live outside human society, but interact with it on their own terms. Powerful magic used, especially powerful healers. They like games, enjoy making pacts with humans, like things with emotional history. They also know the power of stories, and use myths and legends in their magic. 

 

Changelings: Souls taken by the Fae.There is little understanding of these people. The humans left without souls sometimes go through their entire lives like this. They are a twofold people- the human left behind without a soul, and the soul the faeries take. It is not yet known whether the faeries take them to create something, or if there is a people who the faeries gift the souls to. 

 

‘King’ Kingfishers: Hunters, Kings have sharp teeth and a physicality designed for speed, stealth, and the kill. There is no one shape that they take. They mate for life, are known to be persuasive, and have great strength. They bind promises with magic, and the consequences of breaking such a promise are great. They take what they feel they are owed, what they feel would have been theirs had the promise been kept. 

 

Goblins: Usually small, often live in darker places. They have healing powers. A goblin promise, like a kingfisher promise, is binding. If broken, the magic of the promise will take the future and bend it. Goblins like to take the babies of those who break their promises and keep them small and soft, so they won’t grow. A stolen future. 

 

**3 Abilities** : an umbrella term for all supernatural talents.

 

Pedagogue: ability to deal with huge amounts of information. Usually in terms of processing- taking in, understanding, and interpreting. Eidetic memory also falls under this ability.

 

Flight: ability to move faster than normal (normal being a technical term in this context, for speeds set out by Dr. Henry Genery in 1630). How fast depends on training, and natural ability. There are those who move faster than the speed of light, though those with this ability tend not to live beyond childhood.

 

Joy: ability to manipulate emotions. Often goes hand in hand with healing ability.    
  


Empath: one of the strongest, most respected abilities. The ability to feel, understand and manipulate emotions. Differs from Joy in strength and purview- Joy can manipulate, Empaths can, when trained, get to a level where they can almost read minds.

 

Psychic: a wishy-washy term for those who are good at communicating with manifestations.

 

Bright: the other strong, respected ability. This is not really understood. The only real agreement is that 'heart sight' is the best description of it. Brights are often mistaken for an Empath, but Brights are distinct from Empaths. They can't manipulate emotions, they can 'transmit' emotions, conduct emotion from one to another person. No one's really sure the extent of a Bright's ability.

 

Skylark: A less usual ability, often manifesting among sea creatures. This amplifies and channels other abilities. It is an ability that is all about creation and community, linking people, strengthening bonds. 

 

**4 police structures**

 

Supernatural Unit (SU): the name for any supernatural operations in a police station. Depending on the size of the department, it can include some/all/none of the below. Besides the specialist units, it also houses detectives and uniforms who are assigned to specific non-magical departments, and people who are specialists in specific fields or consultants. 

 

Magi Unit (MU): mages cover any misuse of magic, policing other mages, witches, hedge witches. Most of their work is in research, though, consulting on cases for other departments. While they technically are in charge of finding and arresting magic users who are misusing their powers, usually it is street police-officers and detectives who do this in practise. 

Supernatural Intelligence (SI): gather intelligence a. From supernatural sources for non-supernatural cases, or b. For supernatural cases, often on spells and magic use in particular areas. 

 

Supernatural Patrol (SP): usually known as Spook Squad/Ghostbusters, people rarely remember their official designation. They police phenomenon, dealing with any fragment or imprint that is causing trouble. 

 

Musketeers: unique to the London Met, they cover Major Crimes and CID territory, when it becomes supernatural. In practise, their job is to cover any cases that are weird, out of the ordinary, especially dangerous. 

 

Bomb Squad: deal with things like truth bombs, and any kind of magical explosion. 

 

Examples of Magic Crimes: dark magic, possession, love potions. Permits are needed for big spells, the scale of which can be found online from the government website on magic use. Without a permit, some spells are illegal merely for their size and reach. 

  
  


**5 Spells:** usually specific, created by mages, sometimes needing a potion or conduit to work. 

 

Shape confusion and shape shift: a shift is a physical change in shape, a confusion is the impression of that. Confusions wear off quickly, usually only lasting a few moments. 

 

Truth bomb: an explosive that sets of stories in the minds of those near by, generally working off memory, the marks left by memory in the world. 

 

Concealer charms: a shape confusion, but on a smaller scale. Usually conceals things like spots. Used for basic cosmetic disguises. 

 

Potion no. 8: there are twelve numbered potions, which are for regular use. Number eight is for treating people caught by snow angels. Number ten is a hangover cure and number five is for headaches. 

 

Illusions: like a shape confusion, or concealer charm, but usually on a location. Harmless, incorporeal, these are purely psychological. They can be used maliciously to cause psychological harm, but that is illegal. 

 

Siren spell: a complex spell that weaves music with magic and lures the hearer. It relies on the audience having a musical ear. 

 

Banshee scream: a cacophony of noise to hurt, very simple magic. 

 

**6 General terms**

 

Manifestation: the awakening of a phenomena of ability. Used widely, a non-technical term. Simply means that where there was no magic or supernatural, there now is magic or supernatural. 

 

Zap: a sensation of a nearby phenomena

 

pre/post mortem: usually refers to ghosts, and their relationships before or after death. 

 

Conduit- a spell will often need something to latch onto in the physical world, to work through. Pungent things are often good, tangerines, spices. Sometimes a person can work as a conduit, depending on the spell being used and the ability of the person. Skylarks make good conduits. 

 

Sensitive: anyone who has some kind of ability or Sight.

 

See (Sight): the experience of 'seeing' (sometimes it's feeling or hearing or tasting) manifestations. Most people who have ability can See, but not all those who See have ability.

 

Energy: like a radiowave, there is emotional energy, the movement of an emotion in the non-corporeal world, and there is magical energy, the movement of a phenomena in the corporeal world. 

  
Particle: particles are what’s moved by energy. They have different charges, for example the Alactritus charge. 

 

Hollow bones: too much magic in a body effects the bone structure, and leads to this illness. Often painful, recovery is possible, and usual. 

 

Familiar: hedgewitches, because their magic is weaker and untrained, need a conduit for everything. They usually have familiars, non-corporeal copies of themselves, for this purpose.

 

Soul magic: very little is known of it. It is a kind of magic that ancient peoples know of. Very few ‘practise’ soul magic, because no one really knows what it is. Brights are part of this magic, as are Furies. 

 


End file.
